The Jewels of Kinfairlie

Boxed Set

Claire Delacroix

This trilogy is dedicated to my readers,

with heartfelt thanks for your loyalty and support.

May you enjoy reading about the Jewels of Kinfairlie

as much as I have enjoyed writing their tales.

The re-released books in this digital anthology have had only minor corrections from the original text.They are essentially the same as the original print editions, although there are minor variations.

All Rights Reserved

The Beauty Bride

Copyright 2005, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

Cover by Kim Killion.

The Rose Red Bride

Copyright 2005, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

Cover by Kim Killion

The Snow White Bride

Copyright 2005, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

Cover by Kim Killion

The Ballad of Rosamunde

An edited version of this story first appeared in

The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Copyright 2009, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

Cover by Kim Killion

The Jewels of Kinfairlie Boxed Set

Copyright 2013 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

Published by Deborah A. Cooke, 2013

Cover by Kim Killion

Digital design by A Thirsty Mind

ISBN: 978-0-9879548-3-1

Digital Edition

Excerpt from The Renegade's Heart

Copyright 2012 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

Without limiting the rights under copyright preserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dear Reader;

The Jewels of Kinfairlie trilogy begins with a tragedy. The parents of the eight siblings have been killed in an accident, and the oldest son finds himself laird far sooner than he ever expected. Just to make things more interesting, Alexander has always been the troublemaker of all of his siblings, and the one least likely to be serious. Now he has to be serious. The holding of Kinfairlie is in a precarious financial situation, calling for leadership Alexander isn’t sure he possesses. He won’t let down his father’s memory, though, and strives to do his best. His first task is to see his sisters married. When they defy him, he finds another solution to ensure that Madeline takes a husband in The Beauty Bride. Vivienne is then wed in The Rose Red Bride. After this, the sisters decide to get even and make Alexander’s match in The Snow White Bride—with the alluring and mysterious Eleanor. One of the things that I love best about these stories is the sense of family—they all make mistakes but with each other’s love (and sometimes a hefty push in the right direction), these siblings learn and grow.

There is an unconventional aunt in this series named Rosamunde, whose story wasn’t concluded by the end of the trilogy. I’d always hoped to continue the series with my publisher, but that wasn’t meant to be. As a result, Rosamunde was left in limbo—until I had the chance to write a short story about Rosamunde. “The Ballad of Rosamunde” was originally published in the Mammoth Book of Irish Romance, but it was edited for space constraints in that edition. Rosamunde’s entire story is now available in a digital edition, and also is included in this volume.

Many of you will be happy to hear that the adventures at Kinfairlie is continuing with a new series called The True Love Brides. The True Love Brides is a four book series, telling the stories of the next four Lammergeier siblings and their respective quests for true love—it's not a spoiler to tell you ahead of time that all will get their Happily-Ever-Afters! I'm really enjoying my return to Kinfairlie and medieval Scotland, and hope that you will enjoy these books, as well. The Renegade's Heart, the first book in this new series, is available in both a print and a digital edition. There’s an excerpt from that book included here so you can have a taste of Isabella’s story. Annelise will be next to have her story told in The Highlander’s Curse, coming soon.

As with all of my re-releases, I’ve chosen not to revise this trilogy but to republish the books pretty much the way they was published in the first place. There may be a few typos missing in this version, but otherwise it is very similar to the original.

Until next time, I hope you are well and have plenty of good books to read.

All my best,

Claire

The Jewels of Kinfairlie

The Beauty Bride

The Rose Red Bride

The Snow White Bride

And the linked short story,

“The Ballad of Rosamunde”

The Beauty Bride

More cherished than gold are the Jewels of Kinfairlie, and only the worthiest may fight for their love... The Laird of Kinfairlie has unmarried sisters, each a gem in her own right. And he has no choice but to see them all wed in haste.

Lady Madeline’s heart is not for sale... especially not to a notorious outlaw like Rhys FitzHenry. Yet Madeline’s hand has been sold, to none other than this battle-weary warrior with a price on his head. A more dutiful maiden might cede to the Laird’s command and meekly accept her fate, but Madeline has never been obedient. She decides to run away, though she never dreams that Rhys will pursue her. She does not expect this taciturn man to woo her with fanciful stories, much less that each of his enthralling tales will reveal a scar upon his shielded soul. She never imagines that a man like Rhys could imperil her own heart while revealing so little of his own feelings. When Rhys’ past threatens his future, Madeline takes a leap of faith. She dares to believe him innocent—and risks her own life to pursue a passion more priceless than the rarest gem.

Prologue

Kinfairlie, on the east coast of Scotland

April 1421

Alexander, newly made Laird of Kinfairlie, glowered at his sister.

There was no immediate effect. In fact, Madeline granted him a charming smile. She was a beautiful woman, dark of hair and blue of eye, her coloring and comeliness so striking that men oft stared at her in awe. She was fiercely clever and charming, as well. All of these traits, along with the score of men anxious to win her hand, only made Madeline’s refusal to wed more irksome.

“You need not look so annoyed, Alexander,” she said, her tone teasing. “My suggestion is wrought of good sense.”

“It is no good sense for a woman of three and twenty summers to remain unwed,” he grumbled. “I cannot imagine what Papa was thinking not to have seen you safely wed a decade ago.”

Madeline’s eyes flashed. “Papa was thinking that I loved James and that I would wed James in time.”

“James is dead,” Alexander retorted, speaking more harshly than was his wont. They had had this argument a dozen times and he tired of his sister’s stubborn refusal to accept the obvious truth. “And dead the better part of a year.”

A shadow touched Madeline’s features and she lifted her chin. “We have no certainty of that.”

“Every man was killed in that assault upon the English at Rougemont—that no man survived to tell the tale does not change the truth of it.” Alexander softened his tone when Madeline glanced away, blinking back her tears. “We both would have preferred that James’ fate had been otherwise, but you must accept that he will not return.”

He was pleased to note how Madeline straightened and how the fire returned to her eyes. If she was spirited enough to argue with him, that could only be a good sign. “Though I appreciate a wound to the heart takes long to heal, you grow no younger, Madeline.”

Madeline arched a brow. “Nor do any of us, brother mine. Why do you not wed first?”

“Because it is not necessary.” Alexander glared at her, again to no avail. He knew that he sounded like a man fifty years older than he was, but he could not help himself—Madeline’s refusal to be biddable was annoying. “I ask only that you wed, that you do so out of regard for your four younger sisters, that they too might wed.”

“I do not halt their nuptials.”

“They will not wed before you and you know it well. So Vivienne and Annelise and Isabella and Elizabeth have all informed me. I try only to do what is best for you, but you are all in league against me!” Alexander flung out his hands then rose to his feet, pacing the chamber in his frustration.

Madeline—curse her!—regarded him with dawning amusement. Trust her to be consoled by teasing him!

“It is no small burden to become laird of the keep,” she noted, the expression in her eyes knowing when he spun to face her. “No less to be burdened with the lot of us. You were much more merry a year ago, Alexander.”

“And no wonder that! This is hell!” he shouted, feeling better for it. “Not a one of you makes this newfound duty any easier for me to bear! I am not mad to demand that you wed! I am trying to assure your future, yet you all defy me at every step!”

Madeline tilted her head, her eyes beginning to sparkle and a smile lifting the corner of her lips. “Can you not imagine that it is a sweet kind of vengeance for all the pranks you have played upon us over the years? How delicious it is to foil you, Alexander, now that you are suddenly stern and proper! Think of all the frogs in my linens and snakes in my slippers for which I can now have vengeance.”

“I will not be foiled!” he roared and thudded his fist upon the table between them.

Madeline clucked her tongue, chiding him for his show of temper. “And I will not be wed,” she said, her soft tone belying the determination in her gaze. “Not so readily as that. At any rate, you have not the coin in the treasury to offer a dowry, so there is no need to discuss the matter before the tithes are collected in the autumn.”

Alexander spun to look out the window, hoping to hide his expression from his confident sister. There might have been a steel band drawn tight around his chest, for he knew a detail that Madeline did not. The tithes would be low this year, so the castellan had confided in him. There had been torrential rains this spring and what seed had not been washed away had rotted in the ground. He marveled that he had never thought of such matters until this past year and marveled again at how much he had yet to learn.

How had Papa managed all these concerns? How had he laughed and been so merry with such a weight upon his shoulders? Alexander felt nearly crushed beneath this unfamiliar burden of responsibility.

His gaze trailed over the sea that lapped beneath Kinfairlie’s towers and he mourned the loss of their parents anew. He knew that his siblings defied him as a way of defying the cruel truth of their parents’ sudden death, but he also knew that he could not feed all those currently resident in this keep in the winter to come. The castellan had told him so, and in no uncertain terms.

His sisters had to be wed, and at least the two eldest had to be wed this summer. They were all of an age to be married, ranging as they did from twenty-three summers to twelve, but Madeline was the sole obstacle to his scheme.

He pivoted to regard her, noting the concern that she quickly hid. She must guess what it cost him to so change his own nature, to abandon his recklessness in favor of responsibility; she must know that he assumed this task for the sake of all of them.

Yet still she defied him.

“You could at least feign compliance,” he suggested, anger thrumming beneath his words. “You could try to make my task lighter, Madeline, instead of encouraging our sisters to defy me.”

She leaned closer. “You could at least ask,” she retorted, the sapphire flash of her eyes showing that this would be no easy victory. “In truth, Alexander, you are so demanding these days that a saint would defy you, and do so simply for the pleasure of thwarting your schemes. You have become a different man since you were made laird, and one who is difficult to like.”

“I am making choices for the best of all of us,” he insisted, “and you only vex me.”

Madeline smiled with cursed confidence. “You are not vexed. You are irked, perhaps.”

“Annoyed,” contributed another feminine voice. Vivienne tipped her head around the corner, revealing that she had been listening to the entire exchange. Vivienne’s hair was of a russet hue and her eyes were a dark green. Otherwise, she shared Madeline’s virtues and not a few of her faults, including the fact that she also must be wed before the harvest.

Alexander ground his teeth at the slender prospect of succeeding twice in this challenge.

Three shorter women peeked around the edge of the portal, their eyes bright with curiosity. Annelise was sixteen with auburn tresses and eyes as blue as cornflowers; Isabella was fourteen with eyes of vivid green, orange-red hair and freckles across her nose; Elizabeth was ebony-haired like himself and Madeline, her eyes an uncanny green. The sight of all those uncovered tresses—the mark of unmarried maidens—made Alexander’s innards clench.

They were no longer merely his sisters, his comrades, or even the victims of his jests—they and their futures were his responsibility.

“But you are certainly not vexed, Alexander,” Vivienne continued with a smile.

Madeline nodded agreement. “When Alexander is vexed in truth, he shouts. So know this, Annelise, Isabella and Elizabeth, you have not truly angered Alexander until he roars fit to lift the roof.” The five women giggled and that was enough.

“I am indeed vexed!” Alexander bellowed. The sole result of his outburst was that the three younger women nodded.

“Now he is vexed,” said Annelise.

“You can tell by the way he shouts,” Elizabeth agreed.

“Indeed,” said Madeline, that teasing smile curving her lips again. “But still he is a man of honor, upon that we can all rely.” She rose and gave a simmering Alexander a peck of a kiss upon each of his cheeks.

She smiled at him with a surety that made him long to throttle her, for she was right.

“Still he will not raise a hand against a woman.” Madeline patted his shoulder, as if he were no more threatening than a kitten. “I shall wed when I so choose, Alexander, and not one day before. Fear not—all will be resolved well enough in the end.”

With that, Madeline left the chamber, easily gathering their sisters about her. They chattered of kirtles and chemises and new shoes. Elizabeth demanded a story, and as Vivienne complied, their voices faded to naught.

Alexander sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. What was he going to do?

* * *

In this same moment, beneath the neighboring keep of Ravensmuir, there was a ruckus in the caverns.

Ravensmuir perched on the coast, and the network of natural caves beneath its high walls had been augmented by men over the eons. In recent centuries, a family named Lammergeier, who trafficked in religious relics, had claimed Ravensmuir and filled the caverns with their hoard. It was said that no soul could invade the caverns, much less steal from them, without the knowledge of the Laird of Ravensmuir.

Which explained the presence of one small fairy—a spriggan, in fact—sleeping contentedly in the hoard, for fairies are well known to have no souls. As for spriggans, in case you have never seen one (and it is doubtful that you have) they are quite small, small enough to sleep in one’s hand. They are also quite unattractive, although Darg—for that was the spriggan’s name—was even more plain than most.

Darg was dark all over, as if covered by the bark of a gnarled old tree; and her head was like nothing more than a teasel, with the long pointed part forming her nose and the bristles being what passed for her hair. She had small beady dark eyes, and quick little fingers, and even given how strange her appearance, any thinking person would conclude with a glimpse that Darg was a greedy little thief (and that person would have been right). You could not have guessed her gender, not that it mattered much, and indeed, you likely would never glimpse her.

Nonetheless, she was there, in Ravensmuir’s caverns.

Darg had claimed a reliquary for her bed, some years ago. Though she had initially resented the intrusion of these foreign spoils in her nice dark cave, this golden reliquary had a comely glitter about it. It also had a nest of soft golden hair coiled carefully within it. (Darg did not know, nor did she care, that these were said to be three sacred hairs from Saint Ursula herself, who had saved ten thousand virgins and whose flaxen tresses had fallen to her very ankles.)

Darg particularly liked the round crystals on the sides of reliquary, through which she could peek out, mostly because their curve distorted all into nonsensical shapes. As a fairy, albeit a small one with a penchant for making trouble, Darg liked fantastical shapes and illusions.

She could make some pretty impressive ones herself. Spriggans are known for their ability to become enormous phantasms when angered or surprised. In this manifestation, unfortunately, most mortals can see them and often confuse them with vengeful ghosts.

Spriggans are vengeful, to be sure, but not ghosts.

This new noise was enough to wake Darg, who had slept contentedly for several decades. In fact, it had been quiet in the caves for so long—since one laird named Merlyn had foregone the family trade—that Darg had come to think of the glittering hoard as her own. There was one mortal who came to raid the treasure, a woman with long red hair and a bold manner who Darg had never managed to halt.

At the sound of mortal voices, Darg awakened with a yawn and a stretch and a grimace, then peeked through the big clear rock crystal. She was certain that the woman would be responsible, perhaps that Darg would have vengeance this time. Indeed, she was considering which particular large and frightening form would be most effective when she saw the shocking truth.

The intruders were men. A good dozen men. What did they scheme? Darg squinted to watch.

“Aye, the better part of it must be brought to the hall,” said a swarthy one who looked somewhat familiar. “Rosamunde will sort what will be sold once it is there.”

“But there is so much!”

“You cannot see the half of it,” said the first man, then pointed into the darkness scarce penetrated by their flickering lanterns. “There are said to be hidden caverns stacked with it. I suspect that these caves will never be fully cleared, for much has probably been forgotten.”

The three men with him whistled appreciatively. The assessment in their expressions was a familiar expression to Darg, but one she resented when they looked upon her treasure.

“We had best begin,” said the first man. The other men grunted and began to fill baskets and boxes with golden trinkets. Each man worked with haste, gathering fistfuls of goods, uncaring what was jumbled together. Darg was indignant.

But not so indignant as she became when they lifted the boxes and turned back to the stairs that led to the keep.

They were removing the relics.

They were stealing Darg’s treasure!

“Aiiiii!” Darg leapt from her hiding place and screeched with all her power. Without a plan, she transformed into an enormous red angry cloud. The cloud glowed in its midst, it screamed, it was the height of six men. It seemed to push at the walls and ceiling of the cavern, it extinguished the lanterns the men had brought.

And then it screamed some more.

This was the most amusement Darg had had in centuries.

The men, however, were terrified. Some dropped their boxes. They ran for the stairs, bumping into each other in their frenzy to be gone.

“Halt! Be calm!” the first man shouted, but no one heeded him. “What manner of men are you to be afraid of the dark?” he roared, his words barely discernible over the thunder of the men’s boots on the stairs.

Left alone, he lit his lantern again, his expression one of disgust. He swore, then bent to lift a box of relics. Darg screamed again, thinking him uncommonly valiant, but he paid her no need. He frowned, then carefully fitted another two gold pieces into his box. Darg spun into his very face, surrounding him with angry red, then screamed again. He tested the weight of his burden, then straightened to leave.

Darg fell back in astonishment. He could not see her, not in either form. She shrank then to her usual form, for there was no point in expending herself for no purpose. In truth, she felt somewhat disappointed, a bit cheated of his terror. She watched the swarthy man, trying to discern what was different about this mortal. She made no conclusions, because she knew very little about mortals.

Then he lifted the box and turned toward the stairs.

Nay! He could not flee with her treasure! Darg scampered across the chamber and leapt onto the thief’s shoulder. She fit herself into the swinging hoop of his golden earring, and rode to the root of the trouble.

She would wager that the red-headed one was behind this mischief. Darg would also have wagered that the red-headed one knew little of the kind of mischief Darg could make. Darg found herself anticipating the havoc she could wreak with that certain malicious glee which is unique to spriggans.

The defense of her hoard could prove to be amusing, indeed.

Fortunately, she was well rested.

* * *

Alexander was still sitting with his head in his hands at Kinfairlie, though the sky was darker, when his visitors arrived.

“He does indeed look glum enough,” a familiar voice said, laughter beneath her tone. “So we were warned.”

Alexander looked up as his Aunt Rosamunde cast herself upon the bench Madeline had abandoned. She shook the pins from her hair with characteristic impatience. The sunlit tresses fell loose over her shoulders and she sighed with relief.

His spirits rose at the very sight of her, for he and Rosamunde had plotted many a jest together over the years. Hers was a mischievous soul and she was not averse to defying convention or taking a risk.

She winked at him now, though addressed the other visitor. “I would wager that sisters are his woe, Tynan.”

“That is not much of a wager,” Uncle Tynan said grimly, shaking out his cloak before he leaned upon the lip of the window. He was a sober man, always weighing costs and counseling caution. “They are too merry not to have recently triumphed over Alexander.” The older man smiled slightly at his beleaguered nephew. “You are out-numbered and further encumbered by honor. Those five will use any means against you.”

This pair had made an unlikely alliance these past years, since it had been revealed that they were not blood cousins. Rosamunde had been adopted by Gawain and Evangeline, which all knew, but was not Gawain’s bastard daughter, as everyone had long believed. Tynan was the son of Gawain’s brother, Merlyn. Though sparks had long flown between this pair, they had kept their distance, believing themselves to be kin. None had been more surprised by the revelation that they shared no blood than they.

There was a new awareness between them in recent years, and one that Alexander did not wish to explore. Who knew what happened at his uncle’s keep of Ravensmuir when Rosamunde’s ship was docked in its bay? Rosamunde’s labor as a broker of religious relics, both genuine and somewhat less genuine, meant Alexander knew better than to ask questions.

He shook his head now and grimaced. “I could strangle Madeline.”

Rosamunde was dismissive of the notion. “But then you would have to face a court and the king’s justice, and some misery of incarceration.”

“Not to mention purgatory, if not hell itself,” Tynan added.

“Hardly worth it,” Rosamunde said sagely, then winked at him again. “What has Madeline done—or refused to do—this time?”

“She refuses to wed. She thinks she does me a favor, by saving coin in the treasury.” Alexander sighed, then lowered his voice. “But there is no coin and there will be none soon. The castellan says the harvest will be bad, and I fear I will not be able to feed all within these walls this winter.”

“The others?” Tynan demanded, leaning forward in his interest.

“I would guess that they refuse to wed afore Madeline,” Rosamunde suggested softly.

Alexander nodded glumly. His guests exchanged a glance, then Rosamunde cleared her throat. “Do you not miss the old days, Alexander, when your deeds were the most outrageous of all?”

“I have duties now, and an obligation to Papa’s trust,” Alexander said, his very tone dutiful beyond belief.

“And so all the spark has gone from your days and your deeds.” Rosamunde sat back and shook her head, her eyes dancing wickedly. “I think you should surprise Madeline. You have tried to reason with her, after all, and without success.”

“Rosamunde...” Tynan said, the single word filled with warning.

Rosamunde leaned toward Alexander, undeterred. “We came this day to tell you of our agreement to be rid of all the relics at Ravensmuir. Tynan will not suffer them beneath the roof any longer, for he tires of my nocturnal visits to plunder his treasure.”

Tynan snorted, but said nothing.

“Surely you cannot mean to abandon your trade?” Alexander asked in surprise. “I thought you most successful in this endeavor.”

Rosamunde shrugged, her gaze sliding to Tynan. A beguiling color touched her cheeks, then she met Alexander’s gaze again. “I grow no younger, Alexander, and the risk of the seas holds less allure than once it did. Perhaps I shall become a nun.”

Both men laughed uproariously at this prospect, and Rosamunde chuckled in her turn.

“We are agreed that the family trade will finally halt,” she continued more soberly. “And also that the last of the relics must leave Ravensmuir to ensure Tynan has his peace.”

“But what will you do with them?” Alexander asked. “Surely you do not mean to grant them as gifts?”

Tynan chuckled darkly. “I would be a generous donor indeed.”

“We intend to auction them, in the midst of May, when all are anxious for a diversion,” Rosamunde declared, her eyes bright. “We will invite noblemen, bishops and knights from all of Christendom to bid against each other for these prizes. It will be a grand fête and a fitting end to my trade.”

“Madeline might find a spouse there,” Alexander mused, but his aunt laughed aloud.

“Be more bold than that, Alexander!” she declared. “You sound like a man three times your age.”

“Rosamunde,” Tynan warned again, but was heeded no more closely than the first time.

Indeed, Rosamunde’s voice dropped low and she tapped a finger upon Alexander’s knee. Mischief emanated from her every pore. “Perhaps, Alexander, you should auction the Jewel of Kinfairlie. You said you were in need of coin.”

Alexander glanced between the pair of them. Tynan had dropped his brow to his hand and shook his head in apparent despair. Rosamunde looked so delighted with herself that Alexander knew he had missed some critical detail.

“But there is no Jewel of Kinfairlie,” he began cautiously. Rosamunde laughed and understanding dawned. “Oh! But Madeline would loathe me forever if I auctioned her hand!”

“Shhhh!” counseled Rosamunde. Tynan, with obvious resignation, closed the portal and leaned against it.

Alexander looked between the pair of them, his blood quickening at the prospect. Oh, he could well imagine how infuriated Madeline would be—and truly the prospect gave him some pleasure. “I should not dare,” he said carefully.

Rosamunde laughed. “There was a time when you would have dared far more than this to best Madeline.” She braced her elbows upon her knees. “Do not tell me that I have to dare you to do this deed? Alexander, what has become of you? Surely the ruffian we knew and loved is yet within your heart?”

And that was all it took.

Alexander raised a finger. “We will do this upon one condition. I will compile a list of those I deem suitable matches, and only those men will be advised that the Jewel of Kinfairlie is for sale.”

“There is nothing amiss with a private auction, provided all those invited have weighty purses,” Rosamunde conceded.

“I cannot believe that I am a part of this foolery,” Tynan grumbled.

“Of course you are a part of it,” Rosamunde said crisply. “It is you who must pass the word along.” She patted his arm and a spark danced between the two of them, one so hot that Alexander felt obliged to glance away. “Who better to quietly and competently ensure that our niece’s needs are met?”

A ghost of a smile touched Tynan’s lips. “I came also with a proposition for you, Alexander, and one you may find timely. It is fitting for an uncle to train his nephews for knighthood. If you are desirous of it, I will take your brother Malcolm to Ravensmuir, for he is old enough to be so groomed.”

“You are too kind, Uncle. And I know that Malcolm would welcome this trust. He has great fondness for you and is most anxious to begin his military training.”

“And should you desire it,” Tynan continued. “I could send word to the Hawk of Inverfyre. I do not doubt that he would take Ross beneath his care, and train him. It might be a good scheme, for the Hawk has so many sons of his own with whom Ross could practice.”

“It would see another mouth from your board this winter,” Rosamunde said quietly.

Alexander felt his burden lighten. “You are too kind to aid me in this.”

“We are family,” Rosamunde said firmly. “It is our solemn duty to aid each other, and you have need of more aid than most in these times.”

“I thank you for your counsel and your aid,” Alexander said, knowing his gratitude showed.

“You must contrive to bring Madeline to Ravensmuir for the auction,” Rosamunde said with resolve. “For if she guesses the truth afore the nuptials are complete, there will be trouble. We must act with haste and daring to succeed.”

“Woe will come of this particular scheme,” Tynan said darkly.

Rosamunde laughed. “You always say as much. I have a feeling, though, that Madeline might well meet her match.”

“It has long been said that you see more than most,” Tynan acknowledged.

“Yet I do not see what is evident to all,” Rosamunde admitted with a laugh. “Given a choice, I am not certain which I would choose, but the choice was made for me.”

Their banter made all seem aright. For the first time in many months, Alexander felt himself begin to smile. With such a plan, much could be resolved, and truly a mischievous part of him looked forward to irking Madeline as he had for decades. He would not have been her elder brother otherwise.

“I mean to ensure that she does meet her match.” Alexander imagined Madeline’s outrage and chuckled, even as he compiled a list of suitors he knew would treat her well. Within a year, Madeline would forget about her lost betrothed James and the wound in her heart would heal. He knew with utter certainty that she would be happy once she was wed and had a babe in her belly. Within a year, Madeline would thank him mightily for his daring deed.

Truly, this was the best possible solution.

“But I have been remiss,” Alexander said with a heartiness he could not have imagined he would soon feel again. “You are my guests, yet you have neither wine nor ale in your hand. Come to the hall, come and make merry with all of us. Your presence at Kinfairlie is welcome. I thank you, Aunt and Uncle, for you have brought good tidings and welcome counsel indeed.”

* * *

Meanwhile, some miles down the coast that faces the North Sea, a warrior met with a priest. The warrior was a stranger to all at Kinfairlie and at Ravensmuir, though his quest would soon bring him to those gates. He sought another Madeline, Madeline Arundel, a Madeline who should have been twice the age of the Madeline Lammergeier we have met at Kinfairlie. Alnwyck was the keep where priest and warrior met, and this was the day that a mystery would be solved for the warrior.

Rhys FitzHenry touched a fingertip to the name inscribed in the ledger. After many months of searching, he had finally found his cousin Madeline Arundel.

She had died in the winter of 1398, some twenty-three years before.

Rhys looked out the window of the chapel, blind to the windswept shore beyond these stone walls. It rained, a steady patter upon the roof that cast silver across the sea and coast. But in Rhys’ mind’s eye, he saw his cousin on a summer’s day, daisies woven into her raven hair, her hand clasped in the firm grip of Edward Arundel. They had been young, handsome, and vigorously happy.

His uncle Dafydd had called Madeline a tribute bride, a woman exchanged in matrimony to seal a treaty between new allies, but no one would have believed that Madeline wed Edward out of duty alone. There were stars in her eyes and laughter in her voice: even those two old warriors responsible for the nuptials, Dafydd and Owain Glyn Dwr himself, had smiled at her merriment. Rhys had only been a boy, but he remembered the jubilation of that day well.

Madeline had lived a mere year after that. It was impossible to believe, though no surprise that no one had known, given the chaos that had claimed Wales in those years. Rhys' heart clenched in recollection of the couple’s laughter as they left to rejoin the knight’s family in Northumberland.

One year they had savored together. It seemed far too little for the happiness they had found.

“God bless her soul,” the priest murmured and Rhys echoed the blessing.

He was disappointed, he realized, though logically he should not have been. Though he remembered Madeline only vaguely, though she alone could have thwarted his ambitions, he wished his search might have ended differently.

It would not have been all bad to have found some kin left breathing in these sorry times. The rebellion in Wales against the English crown had plucked the ripest fruit from their family tree, and there were precious few of the multitudes of Rhys’ childhood left living.

With Madeline deceased, he would possess Caerwyn himself. Rhys closed his eyes for a moment, the vigor of his desire weakening his knees. He had grown up at Caerwyn, he had learned to wield a blade there, he had joined the ranks to defend her walls when he had been yet a youth. He loved that keep more than life itself, he had dreamed of possessing her, he had despaired that such fortune could ever come to him.

But against all odds, Caerwyn would be his.

Rhys gave Madeline’s name a last caress of farewell, then noted a word he had not seen before.

“In childbirth?” he asked of the priest, fear stirring within him. “Madeline died in childbirth?”

The priest nodded. “I am sorry, my son, but it is not uncommon for women to be lost this way. It was said that her husband, Edward, was devoted to her, and I have no doubt that he procured the services of the best midwife...”

“But what happened to the child?” Rhys dreaded that his search was but partly completed. The child would be a direct descendant of Dafydd. The child could inherit Caerwyn in Rhys’ stead.

He must know the whereabouts of the child!

The priest smiled. “You have uncommon charity for a mere cousin, my son. How kind of you to have a care for your kinswoman’s child.”

Rhys spoke through gritted teeth. “What happened to the child?”

“Perhaps it died as well.” The priest shrugged. “Perhaps the father raised it alone, or wed again.”

“I must know the truth of it!” Rhys shouted and the priest flinched at his vigor. He was immediately contrite. “I am sorry, Father, but the matter is of utmost importance to me.” Rhys swallowed. “This child would be the last living soul of my kin.”

“Of course, of course. Your devotion is most admirable, my son.” The priest ran a fingertip down the ledger and frowned. “No other death is recorded here in that year. I cannot imagine that the babe would have died unshriven if the priest recorded the mother’s demise. There is no mention of a christening, but my predecessor was not always complete in his records. No child was returned to Lady Madeline’s kin?”

“Nay.” Rhys was certain of it.

“How curious. Perhaps it remained here, with the father...” The priest mused as he unfurled the scroll, and Rhys barely restrained himself from snatching the vellum from the old priest’s hands.

“Ah!” The priest granted Rhys a smile. “There is a note here in 1403 that might be of interest. Lady Catherine of Kinfairlie attended the funeral mass for the knight Edward Arundel, who died in battle with Henry Percy.” The priest glanced up. “It is writ that the old Earl of Northumberland wept a thousand tears for the untimely demise of his son and heir, Henry Hotspur.”

“So it is told in the tales I know, as well.”

“But the account states that this Lady Catherine then took the babe of Edward to be her ward, the child’s blood parents both being deceased.” He nodded. “One would assume that the two ladies had been friends, for Lady Catherine to take on Lady Madeline’s young child.” He removed his spectacles and considered Rhys. “Perhaps your kin can be found at Kinfairlie, my son.”

“Perhaps so.” Rhys donned his gloves, knowing his quest was not yet complete. “Where lies this Kinfairlie, Father?”

Chapter One

The auction of Ravensmuir’s relics promised to be the event of the decade. Madeline and her sisters had spent the short interval between the announcement and the event ensuring that they would look their best. Uncle Tynan had declared it imperative that they appear to not need the coin, and his nieces did their best to comply.

It was beyond convenient that they could pass kirtles from one to the next, though inevitably there were alterations to be made. They might be sisters, but they were scarcely of the same shape! Hems had to be taken up or let down, seams to be gathered tighter or let out, and bits of embroidery were required to make each garment “new” for its latest recipient.

There were disagreements invariably between each one and her younger sibling, for their taste in ornamentation varied enormously. Madeline preferred her garments plain, while Vivienne savored lavish embroidery upon the hems, preferably of golden thread. These two did not argue any longer—though once they had done so heatedly, for Madeline sorely disliked to embroider and had been convinced as a young girl that it was unfair for her to endure a hateful task simply to please her sister.

Now, they bent their heads together to make Madeline’s discarded kirtles better suit Vivienne, while Vivienne’s quick needle made short work of any new garb destined for Madeline. Vivienne was also taller than Madeline, even though she was younger, so the hems had to be let out.

Annelise was shorter even than Madeline, so those hems had to be double-folded when a kirtle passed to her. This often meant that the finest embroidery was hidden from view, though this suited Annelise’s more austere taste. Isabella, sadly, was nigh as tall as Vivienne, but could not abide golden embroidery. Her hair was the brightest hue of red of all the sisters and she was convinced that the gold of the thread made her hair appear unattractively fiery. When kirtles passed to her, the sisters would couch the gold with silver and other hues, and the kirtles would be resplendent indeed.

Finally, Elizabeth had the last wearing of each kirtle. This had never been an issue, for she seemed wrought to match the height of Isabella perfectly and was not overly particular of taste. Elizabeth was a girl inclined to dreaming, and was oft teased that she gave more merit to what she could not see than what was directly before her.

But there was a new challenge this year, for Elizabeth was twelve summers of age and her courses had begun. With her courses, her figure had changed radically. Suddenly, she had a much more generous bust than her elder sisters—which meant that she turned crimson when any male so much as glanced her way, as well as that Isabella’s kirtles did not begin to fit her. There proved to be insufficient fabric even with the laces let out fully to grant Elizabeth an appearance of grace.

Tears ensued, until Madeline and Vivienne contrived an embroidered panel that could be added down each side of the kirtles in question. Isabella, who was the most clever with a needle, embroidered patterns along their length that so matched the embroidery already on the hem that the panel appeared to have been a part of the kirtle all along.

Shoes and stockings and girdles took their own time to be arranged, but by the time the sisters arrived at Ravensmuir and were summoned to the chamber of the auction, no one could have faulted their splendor. They had even wrought new tabards for their brothers, Alexander’s bearing the glowing orb of Kinfairlie’s crest on its front, as was now his right.

* * *

So they rode beneath the gates of Ravensmuir, attired in their finest garb. A rider came fast behind them, a single man upon a dappled destrier. He was darkly garbed and his hood was drawn over his helm. Madeline noted him, because he rode a knight’s horse but had no squire. He did not appear to be as rough as a mercenary.

Oddly, Rosamunde answered some summons sent by him into the hall. She cried a greeting to this mysterious arrival, then leaned close to hear whatsoever he murmured. Madeline was curious, for she could not imagine what messenger would seek her aunt here, no less what manner of messenger would ride a destrier instead of a horse more fleet of foot. He had but a dog as companion.

“The colors of Kinfairlie suit you well,” Vivienne said, giving Alexander’s tabard an affectionate tug.

“This work is a marvel!” Alexander declared, sparing his sisters a bright smile. “You all spoil me overmuch, by sharing the labors of your needles.” He kissed each of them on both cheeks, behaving more like an elderly gentleman than the rogue they knew and loved. His fulsome manner left the sisters discomfited and suspicious.

“You were not so thrilled at Kinfairlie, when we granted it to you,” Vivienne noted.

“But here there are many to appreciate the rare skills of my beauteous sisters.”

Years of pranks played by this very brother made all five sisters look over their shoulders.

“I thought you would tickle us,” Elizabeth complained.

“Or make faces,” Isabella added.

“Or tell us that we had erred in some detail of the insignia,” Annelise contributed.

“To grant compliments are most unlike you,” Vivienne concluded.

Alexander smiled like an angel. “How could I complain when you have been so blessedly kind?” The sisters stepped back as one, all of them prepared for the worst.

“Do not trust him,” Madeline counseled, the two elder sisters sharing a nod.

“Alexander is only so merry at the expense of another,” Vivienne agreed.

“Me?” Alexander asked, all false innocence and charm.

“Well, at least you are not garbed like a duchess,” Malcolm complained. He gestured to the embroidery on his tabard. “This is too lavish for a man training to be a knight.”

“At least you do have not to wear this horrendous green,” Ross said. shaking his own tabard. “I would not venture to name this hue.”

“It matches your eyes, fool,” Annelise informed him archly.

“We spent days choosing the perfect cloth,” Isabella added.

“I surrendered this length of wool for you, Ross,” Vivienne said. “And I will not take kindly to any suggestion now that it would make a finer kirtle than a tabard.”

Ross grimaced and tugged at the hem of his tabard, looking as if he itched to cast it aside. “The other squires at Inverfyre will mock me, for garbing myself more prettily than any vain maiden.” He tugged at the tabard in vexation. “What if the Hawk will not take me to his court?”

“You need fear nothing. Our uncle is most fair, and Tynan has sent him a missive already,” Madeline said soothingly. Her gaze followed the stranger and Rosamunde as they entered the keep, her curiosity unsated by what she had seen.

“A maiden might take note of you, Ross, if you look your best,” Elizabeth suggested shyly. Ross flushed scarlet, which did little to flatter the fiery hue of his hair.

“Our fingers are bleeding, our eyes are aching,” Vivienne said with a toss of her tresses. “And this is the gratitude we receive! I expected a boon from my grateful brothers.”

“A rose in winter,” Annelise demanded.

“There is no such thing!” Malcolm scoffed.

“You should pledge to depart on a quest,” Elizabeth suggested. “A pledge to seek a treasure for each of us.”

“Sisters,” Ross said with a roll of his eyes, then marched toward the nearest ostler.

Then Madeline had no further time to wonder about the stranger who had summoned Rosamunde. There was the usual bustle of arrival, of horses to be stabled and ostlers running, of squires and pages underfoot, of introductions being made and acquaintances being renewed. The stirrup cup had to be passed, sisters had to dress and the company had to be gathered.

Soon, the moment would be upon them. The auction that all awaited, the auction that made the very air tingle at Ravensmuir!

* * *

“Every soul in Christendom must be here!” Vivienne whispered to Madeline as they entered the chamber behind Alexander. Dozens of men watched their entry, standing politely aside as the family proceeded to the front of the chamber.

“Not quite so many souls as that,” Madeline said. She had felt awkward since their arrival, for men seemed to be taking an uncommon interest in her.

“Perhaps you will find a husband here,” Vivienne said with a merry wink. “Alexander is most determined that you choose soon.”

“I shall choose in my own time and not before,” Madeline said mildly, then knew a way to distract her sister. “Perhaps Nicholas Sinclair will be here,” she added, her tone teasing.

Vivienne tossed her hair at mention of her former suitor. “Him! He has not the coin for this.”

Alexander stood aside and gestured that Madeline and Vivienne should proceed him. He seemed stiff, and uncommonly serious.

“Smile, brother,” Madeline whispered to him as she passed. “You will never catch the eye of a merry maid with so sour a countenance.”

“The Laird of Kinfairlie must have need of an heir!” Vivienne teased with a laugh.

Alexander only averted his gaze.

“He never remains somber for long,” Vivienne said as they sat upon the bench. “Look! There is Reginald Neville.”

Madeline spared no more than a glance to the vain boy who imagined himself to be besotted with her. As usual, his garb was not only very fine, but he labored overhard to ensure that all noticed it. Even as he waved to her, he held his cloak open with his other hand, the better that its embroidery might be admired.

“I have only rejected him a dozen times.” Madeline’s tone was wry. “There might yet be hope for his suit.”

“What a nightmare his wife’s life will be!”

“And what will he do once he has exhausted the treasury he has inherited?”

“You are always so practical, Madeline.” Vivienne edged closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There is Gerald of York.” The elder sisters exchanged a glance, for that somber and steady man’s endless tales put them both to sleep without fail.

“His bride will be well-rested, that much is beyond doubt.”

Vivienne giggled. “Oh, you are too wicked.”

“Am I? Alexander will turn his gaze upon you next, and demand that you wed soon.”

“Not before you, surely?”

“Whyever not? He seems determined to wed all of us in haste.”

Vivienne nibbled her lip, her merry mood dispelled. “There is that Andrew, that ally of our uncle.”

“He is nigh as old as the Hawk of Inverfyre, as well.”

“Ancient!” Vivienne agreed with horror. She jabbed her elbow into Madeline’s side. “You might be widowed soon, if you wed him though.”

“That is hardly an attribute one should seek in a spouse. And I will wed none of them, at any rate.”

The Red Douglas men and the Black Douglas men arrived and took to opposite sides of the hall, all the better to glower at each other from a distance. Madeline knew that Alexander preferred to ally with the Black Douglases, as their father had done, but she could not bear the sight of Alan Douglas, their sole remaining unwed guest. He was so fair as to be unnatural. He fairly leered at her, the rogue, and she averted her gaze. Roger Douglas, on the other side of the hall, as swarthy as his cousin was fair, found this amusing and granted her a courtly bow.

Madeline glanced away from both of them. Her heart leapt when she found the steady gaze of a man in the corner fixed upon her. He was tall and tanned, quiet of manner and heavily armed. His hair was dark, as were his eyes. He stood so motionless that her eye could have easily danced past him.

But now that she had looked, Madeline could not readily tear her gaze away. He was the stranger from the bailey, she was certain of it.

And he was watching her. Madeline’s mouth went dry.

His hair looked damp, for it curled against his brow, as if he had ridden hard to arrive here. He leaned against the wall, his garb so dark that she could not tell where his cloak ended and the shadows began. His gaze darted over the company at intervals, missing no detail and returning always to her. He stood and watched the proceedings, his stillness making Madeline think of a predator at hunt. The sole bright spot upon his garb was the red dragon rampant emblazoned across the chest of his tabard.

She felt his gaze upon her as surely as a touch and she knew her color rose.

“Look!” Elizabeth said, suddenly between Madeline and Vivienne. “There is a little person!”

“The chamber is full of persons of all size,” Madeline said, glad of some diversion to make her look away from the dark stranger.

“No, a very small person.” Elizabeth dropped her voice. “Like a fairy, almost.”

Vivienne shook her head. “Elizabeth, you are too fanciful. There are fairies only in old tales.”

“There is one in this chamber,” Elizabeth insisted with rare vigor. “It is sitting on Madeline’s shoulder.”

Madeline glanced from one shoulder to the other, both of which were devoid of fairies, then smiled at her youngest sister. “Are you not becoming too old to believe in such tales?” she asked.

“It is there,” Elizabeth said hotly. “It is there, and it is giggling, though not in a very nice way.”

The elder sisters exchanged a glance. “What else is it doing?” Vivienne asked, evidently intent upon humoring Elizabeth.

“It is tying a ribbon.” Elizabeth glanced across the chamber, as if she truly did see something that the others did not. “There is a golden ribbon, Madeline, one all unfurled around you, though I do not remember that we put it upon your kirtle.”

“We did not,” Vivienne whispered, dropping her voice as their Uncle Tynan raised his hand for silence. “Madeline does not like gold ribbons on her kirtle.”

Elizabeth frowned. “It is twining the golden ribbon with a silver one,” she said, her manner dreamy. “Spinning the two ribbons together so that they make a spiral, a spiral that is gold on one side and silver on the other.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, knights and dukes, duchesses and maidens,” Tynan began.

“A silver ribbon?” Madeline asked softly.

Elizabeth nodded and pointed across the chamber. “It comes from him.”

Madeline followed her sister’s gesture and found her gaze locking with that of the man in shadows again. Her heart thumped in a most uncommon fashion, though she knew nothing of him.

“You should not speak nonsense, Elizabeth,” she counseled quietly, then turned her attention to her uncle. Elizabeth made a sound of disgust and Madeline’s heart pounded with the conviction that the stranger watched her even as she turned away.

“As all of you are aware, the majority of the treasures will be auctioned on the morrow,” Tynan said after he had extended greetings and introduced the family. Rosamunde stood at his side, radiant in her rich garb. “You will have the opportunity in the morning to examine such items as are of interest to you, before the bidding begins at noon. Of course, there will be many more arrivals in the morning.” The company stirred restlessly and the sisters exchanged a glance of confusion. “You gentlemen have been specifically invited this night for a special auction, an auction of the Jewel of Kinfairlie.”

“I did not know there was a Jewel of Kinfairlie,” Vivienne whispered with a frown.

“Nor did I.” Madeline looked at Alexander, who steadfastly ignored them both.

“I thank you, uncle,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the weight of the company’s attention upon him. “As you all have doubtless ascertained, the Jewel of Kinfairlie is flawless.”

“Where is it?” Vivienne demanded and Madeline shrugged that she did not know. A few men leered and she began to have a foul feeling in the pit of her belly.

How could there be such a gem and the sisters know nothing of it?

Alexander turned to face Madeline, and gestured toward her. “A beauty beyond compromise, a character beyond complaint, a lineage impeccable, my sister Madeline will grace the hall of whichever nobleman is so fortunate as to claim her hand this night.”

Vivienne gasped. Madeline felt the color drain from her face. The sisters clutched each other’s hands.

Alexander turned to the company, and Madeline suspected he could not hold her gaze any longer. “I urge you gentlemen, selected with care and gathered this night, to consider the merits of the Jewel of Kinfairlie and bid accordingly.”

“Surely this is but one of his pranks,” Vivienne whispered.

Madeline felt cold beyond cold, however. If this was a prank, it required the complicity of many souls. If this was a mere jest, it was difficult to see how it would not compromise Alexander’s repute with his neighbors.

But it was beyond belief that he would truly auction her.

To Madeline’s dismay, Reginald made the first bid with undisguised enthusiasm.

“Alexander!” Madeline cried in horror.

But her brother granted her a glance so cool as to chill her blood, then nodded to the company that the bidding should continue. He stood so straight that Madeline knew he would not rescind his words.

But to sell her? Madeline’s gaze flicked over the company in terror. What if one of these men actually bought her hand?

They seemed intent upon trying to do so. Reginald countered every bid, raising the price with such reckless abandon that his purse must be fat indeed.

The bidding was heated, so heated that it was not long before Gerald of York bowed to Madeline and stepped back into the assembly, flushed with his embarrassment that he could not continue. Madeline sat like a woman struck to stone, shocked at her brother’s deed.

Reginald Neville bid again with gusto. Was there a man within this company who could match Neville’s wealth? The older Andrew grimaced, bid again, then was swiftly countered by Reginald.

He glared at the boy and shook his head.

“Is that the sum of it?” Reginald cried, clearing savoring this moment. He spun in place, his embroidered cloak flaring out behind him. “Will none of you pay a penny more for this fair prize of a bride?”

The men shuffled their feet, but not a one raised his voice.

“Reginald Neville,” Vivienne whispered, her tone incredulous. Her cold fingers gave Madeline’s a tight squeeze of sympathy. Madeline still could not believe that this madness was occurring.

“Last chance to bid, gentlemen!” Alexander cried. “Or the Jewel will be wed to Reginald Neville.”

Madeline had to do something! She rose to her feet and every man turned to face her. “This would be the moment in which you declare your jest to be what it is, Alexander.” She spoke with a calm grace that did not come easily, for her heart was racing.

“It would have been,” Alexander said, “had this been a mere jest. I assure you that it is not.”

Madeline’s heart sank to her very toes, then anger flooded through her with new vigor. She straightened, knowing her anger showed, and saw the dark stranger smile slightly. There was something secretive and alluring about his smile, something that made her pulse quicken and heat rise in her cheeks. “How dare you show me such dishonor! You will not shame our family like this for no good reason!”

Alexander met her gaze and she saw now the steel in his resolve. “I have good reason. You had the choice to wed of your own volition and you refused to take it. Your own caprice brings us to this deed.”

“I asked only for time!”

“I do not have it to grant.”

“This is beyond belief! This is an outrage!”

“You will learn to do as you must, just as I have learned to do as I must.” Alexander lowered his voice. “It will not be so arduous a fate, Madeline, you will see.”

But Madeline was not reassured. She would be wed to the highest bidder, like a milk cow on the Wednesday market. Worse, they all found it to be merry entertainment.

Worse again, the highest bidder was Reginald Neville. Madeline could not decide whether she would prefer to murder her brother or her ardent suitor.

She swore with inelegant vigor, thinking it might dissuade Reginald, but the men in the company only laughed. “You are all barbarians!” she cried.

“Oh, I like a woman with spirit,” said Alan Douglas, fingering his coins. He offered another bid which was swiftly countered by Reginald.

“No marriage of merit will be wrought of this travesty!” Madeline declared, but not a one of them heeded her. The bidding rose higher even as she stood, trembling with anger. She could hear Vivienne praying softly beside her, for doubtless Vivienne feared that she would face a similar scene soon.

Could matters be worse?

* * *

Reginald bid again, to Madeline’s dismay. She felt the weight of the stranger’s gaze upon her and her very flesh seemed to prickle with that awareness.

No matter who bid, Reginald countered every offer. He urged the price higher with giddy abandon and as the company became slower to respond, he began to wink boldly at Madeline.

“You are worth every denier to me, Madeline,” he cried. “Fear not, my beloved, I shall be stalwart to the end.”

“So long as victory can be achieved with his father’s coin,” Vivienne said softly.

There were but five men bidding now, the counterbids coming more slowly each time. Madeline could scarce take a breath.

“Out of coin?” Reginald demanded cheerfully as one man reddened and bowed his head, leaving the fray.

Four men. Madeline’s mouth was as dry as salted fish.

Roger Douglas thumbed his purse, then outbid Reginald.

Reginald pivoted and upped the bid, fairly daring Roger to counter. That man bowed his head in defeat.

Three men. Reginald’s manner became effusive, his gestures more sweeping as he became persuaded of his certain victory. “Come now,” he cried. “Is there not a one of you willing to pay such a paltry sum for the Jewel of Kinfairlie?”

Then two men were left, only Reginald and the uncommonly pale Alan Douglas. As much as she loathed Reginald, it was a sign of her desperation that Madeline began to wish that Reginald would triumph. At least Reginald did not frighten her, as Alan did.

Every bid Alan made, Reginald defeated with gusto. He did so quickly, flamboyantly, clearly not caring how much he paid.

But then, Vivienne had spoken aright. It was his father’s coin and though there would be no more once it was spent, Reginald showed no restraint in ridding himself of its burden.

Alan frowned, stepped forward and bid again. The company held its collective breath.

Reginald laughed, then topped the bid, his tone triumphant.

There was a heavy pause. Alan glared at Reginald, then his shoulders dropped. He stepped away in defeat, his pose saying all that needed to be said.

“I win! I win, I win, I win!” Reginald shouted like a young boy who had won at draughts. He skipped around the floor, hugging himself with delight.

Madeline watched him with disgust. This was the man she would be compelled to wed.

There had to be some means of escape from Alexander’s mad scheme.

Reginald chortled. “Me, me, me! I win!”

“You have not won yet,” a man said, his voice low and filled with a seductive rhythm. “The winner can only claim his prize when the auction is complete.”

Madeline’s heart fairly stopped as the dark stranger stepped out of the shadows. Though he was not much older than Alexander, he seemed experienced in a way that Madeline’s brother was not. She did not doubt that he would win any duel, that his blade had tasted blood. He moved with a warrior’s confidence and the other men created a path for him, as if they could do nothing else.

“He is a fool to wear such an insignia openly,” muttered one man.

“Who is he?” Madeline asked. She jumped when Rosamunde spoke from behind her. Her aunt had moved while Madeline had been distracted by the auction.

“The King of England has set a price upon his head for treason,” Rosamunde said. “Every bounty hunter in England knows the name of Rhys FitzHenry.”

“I daresay every man in Christendom knows of me, Rosamunde,” the man in question said with confidence. “Grant credit where it is deserved, at least.” He spared Madeline a glance, as if daring her to show fear of him. She held his gaze deliberately, though her heart fluttered like a caged bird.

Rhys then doubled Reginald’s bid with an ease that indicated he had coin and to spare.

* * *

The lady Madeline was perfect.

She was the proper age to be the surviving child of Rhys’ cousin Madeline Arundel. She shared her mother’s coloring and her mother’s name. Her supposed family were so anxious to be rid of her without a dowry that they resorted to this vulgar practice of an auction, something no man would do to his blood sister.

And Rhys had to admit that he liked the fire in this Madeline’s eyes. She was tall and slender, though not without womanly curves. Her hair was as dark as ebony and hung unbound over her shoulders, her eyes flashed with fury. Rhys had seen many women, but he had never glimpsed one as beguiling as this angry beauty.

A single glimpse of her had been all it had taken to persuade Rhys that buying Madeline’s hand was the most effective solution to his woes.

After all, with Caerwyn beneath his authority, he would have need of a bride to have an heir. And wedding this woman, if she indeed proved to be Madeline’s daughter and the sole competing heir for Caerwyn, would ensure that no one could challenge his claim to the holding. He did not fool himself that he had sufficient charm to win the hand of such a bride any other way. Rhys had no qualms about wedding his cousin’s daughter, if Madeline proved to be that woman. In Wales, it was not uncommon for cousins to wed, so he barely spared the prospect of their common blood a thought.

Indeed, she would be compelled to wed some man this night, and Rhys doubted that any would grant her the even-handed wager that he was prepared to offer to his bride. Rhys had to believe that he could grant a woman a better life than that offered by her family or this irksome boy, Reginald.

Marriage was a perfect solution for both of them.

And so he bid.

And so the chamber fell silent.

It was as simple as that. Madeline would be his.

Rhys strode forward to pay his due, well content with what he had wrought.

The young Laird of Kinfairlie responsible for this foolery spoke finally with vigor. “I protest your bid. You were not invited to this auction and I will not surrender my sister to your hand.”

Before Rhys could argue, Tynan granted the younger man a poisonous glance. “Did I not warn you that matters might not proceed as you had schemed, Alexander?”

Alexander flushed. “But still...”

“The matter has passed from your grasp,” Tynan said with finality. Rhys knew that Tynan would indeed have cast him out if Rosamunde had not vouched for his character. The lady Madeline had some souls concerned for her future, at least.

“You cannot claim her!” Alexander cried. “I will not permit it.”

Rhys smiled a chilly smile and let his gaze drift over the younger man. “You cannot stop me. And you cannot afford to exceed my bid.”

The young laird flushed crimson and stepped back with a murmured apology to his sister, which Rhys thought long overdue.

Rhys then turned to the huffing Reginald Neville. “Have you no more coin?”

Reginald’s face turned red and he threw his gloves onto the floor. “You cannot have that much coin!”

Rhys arched a brow. “Because you do not?”

Anger flashed in the boy’s eyes. “Show your coin before we continue. I insist upon it!” Reginald flung out his hands and turned to the assembly. “Can we trust a man of such poor repute to honor his debts?”

A murmur passed through the company and Rhys shrugged. He sauntered to the high table, removing a chamois sack from within his leather jerkin. The lady caught her breath when he paused beside her and Rhys studied her for a heartbeat. Her eyes were wide, a glorious simmering blue, and though he sensed her uncertainty of him, she held her ground.

It was not all bad that she was as aware of him as this. He liked the glitter of intelligence in her eyes, as well as the fact that she had tried to halt this folly. He was accustomed to women who spoke their minds and a bride who did as much would suit him well.

He smiled slightly at her, hoping to reassure her, and she swallowed visibly. His gaze lingered upon the ruddy fullness of her lips and he thought of tasting her, knowing then how he would seal their agreement.

But first, the agreement had to be confirmed.

“You need not fear, sir,” Rhys said coolly. “I will owe no debt for the lady’s hand.” There were more than enough gold coins in his sack, but Rhys was not anxious to flaunt his wealth. He cautiously removed only the amount necessary, and stacked the coins upon the board with care. Tynan bent and bit each one of them to test their quality, then nodded approval.

“Then, have her!” Reginald spat in the rushes with poor grace and stormed from the room. His gallantry, in Rhys’ opinion, was somewhat lacking.

There was utter silence in the chamber as Rhys reached out and laid claim to Madeline’s hand, such silence that he heard her catch her breath. His hand was much larger than hers and her fingers trembled within his grasp.

But she did not pull her hand from his and she held his gaze steadily. Again, he admired that she was stalwart in standing by the terms of agreement. He bent and brushed his lips across her knuckles, feeling her shiver slightly.

Alexander placed a hand upon Rhys’ arm. “I do not care for convention and broken agreements. You cannot wed my sister—you are charged with treason!”

Rhys spoke softly, not relinquishing the lady’s hand. “Do not tell me that the Laird of Kinfairlie is not a man of his word?”

Alexander flushed scarlet. His gaze fell upon the stack of coins and Rhys knew that he had desperate need of those funds.

He leaned closer to the boy, the lady’s hand yet firmly clasped in his own, and dared the new heir of Kinfairlie. He would show the lady, at least, what manner of man her brother was. “I will grant you a chance to rescind your offer, though it is more than you deserve. Reject my coin, but solely upon the condition that the lady shall not be sold to any man.”

It was clear that the younger man struggled with this decision. He appealed to his sister with a glance. “Madeline, you must know that I would not do this without cause.”

And he reached for the coin.

“Cur!” she cried, her scorn matching Rhys’ own. Rhys turned to her, his breath catching at the fury that lit her expression. “Take it then, Alexander! Take it, for whatever debts you have, and reject whatsoever loyalty Papa might have thought you owed to your siblings.”

Alexander’s hand shook slightly as he claimed the coins. “Madeline, you do not understand. I must think of the others...”

“I understand as much as I need to understand,” she said, her words as cold as ice. “God save my sisters if you think of them as you have thought of me.”

“Madeline!”

But the lady turned her back upon her sibling, her bearing as regal as that of a queen, her gaze locking with Rhys’ own. He saw the hurt that she fought to hide and felt a kinship with her, for he too had been betrayed by those he had believed held him in regard.

“I believe there is a meal laid to celebrate our pending nuptials, sir,” she said, her words carrying clearly over the hall.

Aye, this bride would suit him well. Rhys lifted her hand in his grip and bent to brush his lips across her knuckles in salute. She shivered and he smiled, knowing their nuptial night would be a lusty one.

“Well done, my lady,” he murmured, liking that she was not readily daunted. “Perhaps our agreement should be sealed in more fitting way.”

A beguiling flush launched over the lady’s face and her lips parted as if in invitation. Rhys gave her hand a minute tug as the company hooted, and she took a pace closer. He could fairly feel the heat of her breath upon his cheek and her own cheeks flushed. Still she did not look away, though her breath came quickly in her uncertainty.

Rhys entwined their fingers, then lifted his other hand to her face. He moved slowly, so as not to alarm her, well aware of her uncertainty. She would be a maiden, without doubt. It would not do to make her fearful of his touch. Rhys tipped Madeline’s chin upward with his fingertip. Her flesh was soft beyond belief, her valor admirable. He smiled slightly, saw a spark in her eyes that reassured him as little else might have done. This was no fragile maiden who would fear her own shadow.

Rhys bent and captured Madeline’s sweet lips beneath his own. To his satisfaction, the lady did not flinch, nor did she pull away.

Aye, this was a wife who would suit him well.

Chapter Two

Rhys’ kiss was more gentle than Madeline had anticipated.

Indeed, his kiss fairly melted her bones. An intoxicating heat rolled through her, the pressure of his lips against hers making her yearn for more. He smelled of wind and rain and leather, altogether masculine and alluring.

Yet he was gentle with her. And patient. Madeline knew that he coaxed her caress, that he believed her to be innocent, and though she guessed it to be his intent, her fear of him faded like night at the dawn.

Truly, the man could addle the wits of any woman with a kiss like this. Madeline had never guessed that such pleasure could be launched from such a gentle caress, nor had she imagined that she might become a willing participant in this embrace.

But then, circumstances were most uncommon. She was angry and hurt and knew not which way to turn. That she should be consoled by a complete stranger, a stranger she would be compelled to wed against her own volition, was beyond belief.

No less that he would console her with a kiss.

Her heart had nigh stopped when she had guessed what he would do, then it had raced when he touched her chin. A measure of her resistance had melted with the softening of his expression, and she did not doubt that he knew as much.

Then his lips had claimed hers and she found herself beguiled. Her anger with Alexander was forgotten in a trio of heartbeats, her curiosity about his sudden need for coin faded to nothing.

The sole thing of import was Rhys’ gently persuasive kiss. Madeline would never have guessed that a man so stern of appearance could grant such a seductive caress. The very fact of it made her wonder what manner of man he was truly, whether his garb and manner belied his true nature.

When Rhys lifted his head, there was a twinkle in his dark eyes, a twinkle as alluring as his kiss. His grip was tight upon her fingers and he seemed to be drawn taut, waiting for her response as the arrow waits to be loosed from the bow.

As if he cared whether she was pleased.

Madeline was breathless and disheveled. She found her hand upon the breadth of his chest, her fingers knotted in the lace of his leather jerkin, and she did not know what had overcome her.

Then she met his bemused gaze and understood the danger of this man. Rhys had undermined her objections to this unconventional match, and he had done so with a mere kiss. The threat of this man was not in his repute but in his ability to make her ignore what she knew.

He was a traitor wanted by the king. He was a man of dark deeds and considerable coin, which Madeline doubted had been earned with honest labor. Madeline dared not cede to the passion he conjured so readily as she had done just this moment.

She had need of time. Somehow, she had to escape both Alexander’s scheme and Rhys’ intent. But she could not think when her wits were so addled as this.

Madeline forced a smile. “I would have the nuptials on the morrow,” she said, hoping her calm tone hid her intent to evade those marital vows. She let her lashes flutter to her cheeks, as if she were far more demure than she was. “I would have a night to prepare myself.”

“It is reasonable enough,” Tynan said firmly when Alexander might have protested. “Madeline has confronted more surprises this day than any soul could expect.”

Madeline, for her part, could scarce draw a breath, so aware was she of Rhys’ avid gaze upon her. He seemed to peer into her very thoughts, to guess at the root of her hesitation, and she felt a strange compulsion to confess that she had no desire to wed him.

She would have refused to wed him outright, had she known why Alexander had such need of this coin, had she known that he would not then promptly offer Vivienne’s hand for auction. After all, there was a willing company already gathered.

“I invite you all to celebrate this agreement at the board!” Tynan declared. The men cheered and began to make their way to the hall, the smell of roasting meat tempting them to hasten. Madeline heard barrels of wine being rolled into the hall, and a woman from the kitchens shouted that there was ale aplenty for all.

“Do not do that!” Elizabeth cried suddenly. She pointed over the heads of Madeline and Rhys. There was nothing there that anyone else could discern.

“Elizabeth, that it is enough about such nonsense,” Madeline said firmly, having no patience in this moment for her sister’s ridiculous talk about fairies.

“It is not nonsense!” Elizabeth swatted with such vigor that she nearly hit Madeline. “That fairy is knotting your ribbons!”

“What ribbons would those be?” Rhys asked.

“The ones it wove together earlier, of course,” Elizabeth said impatiently. “Your silver one and Madeline’s golden one. But now it knots the ribbons into a most fearsome tangle, and it laughs.” She gave Rhys a somber look. “It is not a nice laugh.”

“I would expect not,” he agreed with equal solemnity and Madeline knew that he must think her sister mad.

“Halt!” Elizabeth swung her fist again at the invisible foe and Rhys ducked in the nick of time. “Cease your mischief, little fairy! I do not know what those ribbons mean, but your deed cannot be a good one.”

“Elizabeth, cease your mischief!” Vivienne retorted, seizing her youngest sister by the arm. Other people were beginning to look askance at Elizabeth and more than one couple whispered, undoubtedly about the girl’s odd behavior.

Madeline parted her lips to agree with Vivienne, then had a thought. Would Rhys insist upon wedding her if he thought her mad, as well? No man could desire a wife who might give him tainted children.

Perfect! Here was her means of breaking this agreement.

“Indeed,” Madeline said, without another moment’s consideration. “You will injure the fairy with such gestures, and that would scarce be wise. They are said to be vengeful if wounded.”

Elizabeth gaped at her, clearly astonished that someone took her cause. “You can see it?”

“Do you feel well, Madeline?” Vivienne asked.

“Of course I feel well. And of course I can see it!” Madeline smiled at her astonished family. Rhys watched her with care, his eyes narrowed. “What is amiss with the eyes of all of you? It is right there.” And she pointed to the right, high over their heads. All turned to look, then glanced back at Madeline.

“No, it is over there,” Elizabeth corrected with scorn, pointing in the opposite direction. The family turned again, then considered the two sisters with open skepticism.

“So it is, it moves so quickly for such a small creature.” Madeline laughed merrily, then patted Elizabeth’s shoulder as if they two shared a jest. “It must be those golden wings that grant it such speed.”

“It has no wings,” Elizabeth fairly growled. “I would wager that you cannot see it at all.”

Truly, Elizabeth could have been of more aid in this! Madeline gripped her sister’s shoulder. “Perhaps you have not looked closely enough to see its wings,” she said with resolve. “I see that it has little golden wings. And bells upon its toes. Indeed, it is quite a beauteous little fairy. It might befriend you, Elizabeth, if you ceased trying to strike it.”

Elizabeth granted Madeline a dark glance. “It is the most ugly creature that ever I have seen, and it is cruel besides. You should understand as much, seeing as it is knotting your ribbon with such malice.” With that, the younger sister put her nose in the air and marched toward the great hall.

Madeline watched her go for a moment, then summoned a bright smile. “Of course, I had forgotten the ribbons,” she said gaily to her family.

“Perhaps because you cannot see them?” Vivienne suggested.

“Is it not said that the fey appear differently to the eyes of each mortal?” Madeline said, wishing someone who shared blood with her might be of assistance on this day. “Who can say what scheme this one has to appear so loathsome to Elizabeth?”

“Who indeed?” Rhys murmured, then laid claim to her elbow. “Shall we proceed to the hall, my lady?”

“Look! The little fairy is on the end of your nose!” Madeline laughed and pointed at Rhys’ nose. “Can you not see it?”

“Nay, I cannot,” he said. “But perhaps I am merely hungry.”

“Oh, there it flies, its little wings flashing!” Madeline laughed like a lunatic, and all but Rhys quickly put some distance between themselves and her. “Oh, it is entangled in the ribbons. How amusing!”

Rhys made to lead her from the hall, apparently untroubled by her manner.

Madeline pulled back from his grip to meet his gaze. “Are you not concerned that I see creatures that you do not?”

He shook his head. “The fey show themselves where they will. Indeed, it has been said that it is a gift to see them. Perhaps you will bring fortune to my days, my lady.”

Madeline grit her teeth, irked that he could find merit in her ploy. “I have never heard of madwomen bringing good fortune to their spouses—quite the opposite, in fact.”

“That may as well be,” he agreed easily. “But you are no more mad than me.”

“But my sister...”

“Has an uncommon gift, it is clear, as might you. I have no concerns with kin who can see the fey—quite the contrary, in fact. Come, the meal awaits.”

Madeline gaped at her betrothed, uncertain what to make of his manner. This warrior believed in fairies?

He spared her a sudden glance, his eyes twinkling so merrily that he might have been another man than the stern one who had won her hand, and her heart skipped again.

How much else did she not know about Rhys FitzHenry?

* * *

Madeline’s sisters closed ranks around her as they made their way noisily to the great hall, and she was separated from Rhys. Vivienne gripped her right hand, her characteristic merriment dispelled. Annelise held fast to Madeline’s other hand, and was uncommonly quiet even for one known to be quiet. Madeline assumed that Rhys had gone on to the hall and indeed, she was glad to have a moment with her sisters.

“We shall ensure that your dress is absolutely perfect,” Vivienne said with such false cheer that Madeline knew she spoke for the benefit of the younger girls. “Do you think the blue samite needs another row of pearls upon the hem?”

“A wedding should be rich indeed,” Isabella said. “And you will be the first of us wed, Madeline. Can we come to your new abode to visit?”

“Of course,” Madeline said, then wondered where that abode might be. Did Rhys even have claim to a keep or a hut, or did he travel all the time? Where would her home be? Had Alexander behaved responsibly, they would all know this critical detail.

“Will you have babies of your own?” Annelise asked shyly.

“I suppose that I will,” Madeline said.

“We could persuade Uncle Tynan to open his treasury and spare more gems for you,” Isabella said. “To ensure that you will be a glorious bride.”

Rosamunde laughed beneath her breath, her hand landing again on Madeline’s shoulder. “That would be a fair triumph.”

“But what of you, Aunt Rosamunde?” demanded Isabella. “Will you not shower Madeline with rubies and sapphires on the night before her wedding? She could be as radiant as the sun!”

“Indeed, Aunt Rosamunde,” Tynan said darkly. “There are treasures aplenty in your stores that you might spare a few.”

Rosamunde granted him a telling glance. “Madeline will be radiant with or without more gems. I would share with her something more enduring.”

“Like what?” The girls clustered around Rosamunde, their eyes wide.

“It will be a secret between Madeline and I,” Rosamunde said mysteriously, which did little to sate the curiosity of Madeline’s sisters. Madeline could not be certain what her aunt meant, though she suspected Rosamunde’s gift would be counsel.

Madeline knew something of what happened between men and women—she had been in the fields in the spring, when the animals mated, after all—but felt in need of a little more information. She had no doubt that Rosamunde knew much more about such deeds.

“Nonetheless, we will stay awake all the night long!” Isabella said, happy at the prospect of a celebration. She raced after Tynan, while quiet Annelise hung close to Madeline. Madeline could fairly smell the concern of her next two sisters, the fear for their own futures.

She had to do something to ensure that Alexander did not repeat this folly.

To his credit, Alexander looked somewhat uneasy with what he had wrought. “I am sorry, Madeline,” he said. “You must know that this was not the outcome I anticipated.”

If he thought matters could be repaired with a pretty apology—after he had recklessly shaped the rest of Madeline’s life!—he was mistaken. “You took his coin amiably enough,” she observed, not troubling to hide her displeasure.

Alexander flushed. “You would not wed of your own volition and I had to make a choice. You will be happy enough in a year, when your belly is round with a child.”

“You think the matter as simple as that?” Madeline was aghast.

Alexander’s lips set stubbornly. “I had little choice. You do not understand the challenges before me.”

“No, I do not.” Madeline held his gaze with no small measure of determination herself. “You might tell me of them.”

“I cannot.” Alexander cast a glance over the watchful sisters. “Not here. Not now.”

His reticence made Madeline believe that he had little reason for this foolery—or that his reason was not one flattering to himself. “You merely thought it a jest,” she accused. “But I would have you pledge to me, brother mine, that you will not so shame our sisters as you have me.”

“I meant well, Madeline. You have to know that!”

“Your intent is of less import than your deeds. You always were too besotted with your own ideas, however wild they were.” Madeline spoke as sternly as their father oft had. “All the world is not so readily charmed by you and your schemes as Maman and Papa were. Take greater care with our sisters’ lives than you have with mine.”

Alexander’s mouth set into the relentless line that Madeline knew all too well. “You cannot command me to do your will, not when I am Laird of Kinfairlie.”

“Swear it!” Madeline cried, her vigor so uncharacteristic that her siblings looked at her in alarm. “I will not suffer you to repeat this foolery! You have coin aplenty to pay any debt as a result of this day’s folly. Swear it, Alexander.”

Alexander looked disinclined to do as much, and her sisters’ grips tightened on Madeline’s hand.

“I would suggest you do so as the lady suggests,” Rhys said from unexpected proximity. “Your sister speaks with greater sense than you have shown thus far.”

“I thought myself among kin,” Alexander complained as he scowled at Rhys. “You should have declared your presence afore this!”

“And you should look about yourself afore you speak.” Rhys captured Madeline’s hand in his once again, easing Annelise aside. “A man must keep his wits about him better than you have done this night if he means to survive as lord of a holding. He must also guard his treasures more closely than you have guarded the Jewel of Kinfairlie. We will be kin soon enough, Laird of Kinfairlie.”

Alexander flushed scarlet at this, obviously discerning some truth in Rhys’ words. Madeline was astonished that her new betrothed was the one to champion her demand. Her sisters regarded Rhys with admiration.

Rhys drew Madeline closer to his side, as if they spoke as one. “Grant my lady the pledge she requests of you and grant it to her immediately.”

His lady. That treacherous shiver began deep within Madeline’s belly. She was stirred by Rhys’ touch and so surprised by his endorsement that she could not summon a word to her lips.

Alexander regarded the pair of them sullenly. “I swear it, Madeline. I shall not auction our sisters.”

And there, the pledge she had requested was hers as readily as that. Madeline had the uncommon sense that Rhys would ensure the promise was kept. She was relieved, yet felt a debt to Rhys that she would have preferred not to owe.

“Does that suit you well enough?” Rhys demanded of Madeline.

“It does.”

“Then what was begun poorly has ended well.” Rhys tucked Madeline’s hand into his elbow. “Come, my lady. Our betrothal feast awaits.”

Madeline turned at his bidding, as if she would indeed be a dutiful wife to this renegade. She dared not let him see the defiance that roiled within her. She matched her step to his and even managed to grant him a small smile. Though she was glad of Rhys’ intercession, she was wary of his reasons for doing so.

Her sisters thanked him prettily for his intervention, their estimation of his character obviously improving by the moment. Madeline did not doubt that Rhys cultivated their approval deliberately—and she did not trust that he did so.

Any man could be charming for one evening.

Any man of dark repute might find that one evening of such charm served him well, if it gained him the bride he desired for all eternity.

It was Madeline who would have to live with the result.

Rhys seemed so determined to eliminate her misgivings—and to think well of her—that he roused her suspicions. That he was a traitor to the crown made Madeline doubly determined to not pledge herself forevermore to an utter stranger. But no matter, by the morning, Madeline would be gone from Ravensmuir, leaving no trace of her destination behind.

That would be simple to do, for she as yet had no idea where she would go.

* * *

Rhys could fairly smell the defiance of his intended. In truth, he could not blame her for being reluctant to wed under such strange circumstance, no less to a man she did not know.

No less to a man reputed to be a villain.

But wed they would be, and wed they would be on the morrow. Rhys would suffer no further delay in his claiming of Caerwyn.

The sole solution was to reassure the lady, in what little time remained between this meal and the exchange of nuptial vows. He had begun with reassuring her sisters, and so he would continue. Indeed, their merry presence awakened a yearning in Rhys, a memory of his own lost sisters and the way they had tormented their only and much younger brother. He felt an uncommon tenderness in the midst of these sisters, for their bickering was evocative of his own half-forgotten past.

The company were seated at the high board under the direction of Tynan’s castellan. Tynan claimed the central seat, with Rosamunde upon his left and a young boy upon his right. The boy shared the dark hair of Madeline and Alexander, though his eyes were a vivid green, so Rhys guessed him to be another sibling. Further to Tynan’s right was Alexander, then two of the younger sisters.

Rhys was seated to the left of Rosamunde, Madeline to his left and her sister Vivienne to her left. The sister, Elizabeth, who had seen the fairy had the end place at the table and seemed despondent that no one had believed her earlier. She cast covert glances down the table, often in strange directions, and Rhys wondered what she saw.

In the first table facing the high table were seated various bishops and dukes and lords in their finery, their wives and consorts at their sides. They were all seated roughly by rank, though the ale had already flowed with sufficient vigor that none were in the mood to take offense at any inevitable slight.

Rhys saw the women settled and their cups filled, then winked at the dejected Elizabeth. Her color rose and she toyed with her cup, even as she cast him a glare.

“Do not mock me,” she said.

“I would not dream of doing as much. You must have a fearsome power to be able to see the fey so clearly.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yours is a rare gift.”

The girl brightened at Rhys’ nod, and Rhys felt Madeline stiffen beside him. He had a thought then that the lady’s resistance could be softened through her siblings.

“It is pulling your ear and making fearsome faces,” Elizabeth confided.

“Then it is a mercy that I cannot see it, much less feel the pain.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Why do you believe in fairies?”

“Because they exist, of course.”

“But how can you know as much, if you cannot see them?”

“My mother and her kin are reputed to be descended from a water fairy, who wed a mortal man, my own forebear.” Rhys watched the girl’s eyes round and felt Vivienne turn to listen to his words. “Do you know the tale of the Gwraggedd Annwn?”

Both girls shook their heads, while Madeline took a studied interest in the arrival of the venison. Rhys did not doubt that she listened to him, as well, and he was glad to have chosen this tale to recount.

In fact, it described his own response to the lady beside him perfectly, and he hoped that she would discern the morsel of truth in his words. He was aware of her presence, of the spill of her kirtle so close to his leg, of the soft scent of her flesh, of her thigh beside his own. Her hand rested on the board, soft and finely wrought, and though he yearned to capture it within his own, he feared to frighten her.

A tale might soften her resistance to him.

He cleared his throat and began. “There are many lakes in Wales, where I was born, and most of them have a mysterious air. It is said that there are fairies living beneath the surface, in splendid palaces that mortal men can only glimpse once in a long while. It is said that their daughters are beauteous beyond belief, and immortal, and wise. And it is told that one such lake maiden liked to sit on a certain rock on the shore, and comb her hair in the sunlight.”

“I would wager that a mortal man spied her there,” Vivienne said, her eyes glowing.

“Indeed, one such man did,” Rhys agreed. “And as you might anticipate, he was smitten at the sight of this rare beauty. Some say that she was singing and that her voice was such a marvel that he was enchanted. Others recount that it was her beauty alone that snared him. I heard that she had hair as dark as a raven’s wing, and eyes that flashed like sapphires. I have heard that he had only to see her the once to lose his heart completely.”

Madeline cast him a glance at this description, which so nearly matched her own, and Rhys held her gaze as he continued. “She was a beauty beyond beauties, that much is for certain, and her character was no less attractive than her face. And so, the mortal man was smitten, and in the hope of winning her attention, he offered to share his bread with her.”

Rhys glanced down at the table, knowing Madeline’s gaze would follow his own, and considered the trencher cut of bread that they were to share. Madeline’s cheeks were stained with sudden color and she looked across the hall.

“And what happened?” Elizabeth demanded.

“The fairy maiden said that his bread was too hard. She may have laughed at his dismay, then she disappeared beneath the water, scarcely leaving a ripple on its surface.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth was clearly disappointed, thinking the tale finished, but Vivienne spoke up.

“He probably did not give up easily.”

“Indeed he did not, for love is a fearsome power. He knew that he had to win this maiden’s favor, and he did not care how difficult the task might prove to be. No man of merit surrenders readily to the challenge of his lady’s desire.”

A page placed meat upon the trencher and Rhys nudged the choice morsels toward Madeline. She glanced down, took nothing, and looked away again, her back straight.

Rhys was not deterred.

“The man returned home and sought his mother’s counsel, and that woman gave him bread the following morning which had not been baked. He went back to the same place, and was thrilled to find the lake maiden there again. He offered to share this bread, but she laughed and said it was too soft for her. With that, she disappeared into the lake once more.”

“And the third day?” Elizabeth prompted.

“On the third day, he brought bread that was half-baked, and the fairy maiden liked it very well. Indeed, I suspect that she liked that he labored so determinedly to win her favor.” Vivienne laughed at this, though Madeline drew slightly away from Rhys. Did she find herself susceptible to his meager charm, or was she repulsed by him? He could not guess, but continued on. “No sooner had she eaten of the bread, though, than she disappeared again into the lake. The man was disappointed by this, for he thought the fairy maiden spurned him.”

The girls were rapt, and even Madeline glanced over her shoulder at Rhys. “Did he abandon his quest, then?” she asked and Rhys let himself smile.

“Did I not mention that love had a hold upon him? No sooner had he begun to fret than three resplendent figures rose from depths of the lake. They walked across its surface to him, their garb and jewels glittering in the sunlight. There were two maidens, each as beautiful as the other, both so similar as to have been the same woman in two places. They stood on either side of an older gentleman in fine garb, who informed the mortal man that he was the king of the fairies beneath the lake. The king offered one of his daughters in marriage to the mortal man, if that man could identify which daughter had accepted his bread.”

Rhys pursed his lips. “This was no easy task. The man looked between them and feared that he would fail, for he could discern no difference between the sisters. And just when he thought all to be lost, the one on the right slid her foot slightly forward. For you see, the fairy maiden had fallen in love with the mortal man, and she did not desire to lose him.”

He captured Madeline’s hand and let his thumb slide over her skin. She shivered and her eyes turned a more fervid blue, though she did not pull her hand from his grasp. “He recognized the slipper of his lady love immediately, and was overjoyed that she too was willing to make this match. Thus he spoke out and chose his bride correctly.”

“And so they were wed,” Vivienne prompted.

“And so they were wed, though the fairy king granted an injunction. If the mortal man struck his fairy wife three times, then he would lose her forever, for she would be compelled to return to her father’s kingdom beneath the lake.”

“And he agreed to this?” Madeline asked.

“Of course.” Rhys held her gaze. “No man of merit strikes his lady wife, for any reason.” A little of the stiffness seemed to ease from her shoulders. “The mortal man agreed to the father’s demand, seeing no reason why he would so abuse his beautiful bride. And so they were wed, and so they had sons, and good fortune, and bountiful crops and many sheep to call their own. It was said by all his neighbors that the man had been blessed indeed on the day that he wed this bride.”

Rhys sipped of his ale, aware that Madeline had eaten nothing and had had little to drink. Her hand seemed to tremble within his own, as if he had snared a wild bird, and when she pulled her hand this time, he released his grip. Did she understand that he meant to reassure her with this tale?

“That cannot be the end of their tale,” Vivienne charged.

“Far from it, for there was an oddity about the man’s fairy wife. Perhaps because she was immortal, perhaps because she had a touch of the Sight, they tended to disagree on occasion. First, she laughed at a funeral, laughed with such gusto that her husband felt compelled to tap her on the shoulder and demand that she be quiet. She fell silent for a moment, and then she said ‘That would be the first strike’. The man was appalled by what he had done, and he resolved to be more careful in future.”

“But he was not,” Elizabeth guessed.

“She wept at a wedding,” Rhys agreed with a nod. “Wept as if all the merit of the world were lost in the forming of this union. And the people gathered there looked askance at her manner, and the man finally lost his temper. He tapped his wife on the shoulder and bade her be quiet. She fell silent for a moment, and then she said ‘That would be the second strike’. And she did not speak to him for days, for she loved him as much as he loved her, and she feared that he would compel them to separate for all eternity. Matters went well for a number of years, their sons grew ever taller, and their sheep more numerous.”

“And then?” Vivienne demanded.

“And then?” Elizabeth asked.

“And then a child was drowned in the very lake from which the fairy woman had come. It was a child known well by the couple, a lovely child greeted with fondness at every door. But when the truth was learned, and the people gathered at the shore of the lake where the child’s body had been found, the fairy wife sang. She did not sing a funeral dirge, she sang a song of joy, as if there was a matter to celebrate instead one to mourn.

“As the people turned from her in disgust, her husband grew impatient yet again. He tapped her on the shoulder, told her that the song was not fitting, and bade her be quiet. She fell silent for a moment, and then she said ‘That would the third strike’. She kissed her sons and caressed her husband’s cheek, and then she walked into the water. She disappeared beneath the surface, lost to him for all time, deaf apparently to his weeping entreaties. And so they were parted, just as the fairy king had foretold.”

Both girls looked disappointed with this ending, but Rhys lifted a finger, for he was not done. “But it is said that she never forgot her sons or her beloved. Some people say that she would return to that stone on moonlit nights, that she would meet her husband there, and they would sit, an arm’s length apart, and talk. Others say that she visited her sons in their dreams, and that she imparted all her knowledge of healing herbs to them. They became a family of famed physicians, who still can be found beside that lake, to this very day.”

Vivienne sighed with satisfaction. “What fortune you have, Madeline, to wed a man who can tell a tale so well.”

“And one descended from fairies!” Elizabeth enthused.

Rhys glanced down the table and thought he could supply the endorsements of the other two sisters. Annelise had been reassured by his insistence that Alexander not repeat this foolery of an auction, while Isabella seemed content that Rhys and his bid had been responsible for a wedding.

Madeline alone remained unpersuaded of his merit. Rhys had charmed the sisters, but not his bride.

“I think it a sad tale,” she said with disapproval, her hands folded tightly together in her lap.

His bad fortune, it appeared, had not fully changed. But Rhys, like the man in his own tale, did not surrender the challenge of winning his lady’s desire so readily as that.

Chapter Three

Madeline thought she might scream in her impatience to be gone. It seemed to take the assembly half the night to tire of Tynan’s wine and ale. Madeline contrived to hide every sign of her desire to flee.

Rhys did not speak to her directly again, but the heat of his thigh was close to her own and she could fairly hear him listening to her breath. Though he glanced across the hall, apparently unconcerned with her, Madeline knew that she held his complete attention.

It was more than disconcerting.

Worse, since his tale of the water fairy, Elizabeth and Vivienne appeared to be charmed by Rhys. Isabella, who always favored a celebration over quieter moments, anticipated the wedding with glee. Even Annelise, who was slow to take a liking to strangers, looked upon Rhys with favor since he had insisted that Alexander not auction more of the sisters.

Only Madeline seemed to have eyes left in her head, or wits between her ears. She would flee, she would flee so far that they would never hear tell of her again.

“Are you well, Madeline?” Vivienne asked for what must have been the seventh time. “You are so quiet this night.”

Knowing full well that Rhys listened to their conversation, Madeline wished her sister could have let the matter be. “I am always so demure,” she said with a sweetness that should have warned her sister.

Instead, Vivienne laughed. “You? I should think not!”

Madeline grit her teeth and kicked her sister beneath the table. Vivienne kicked her back, hard enough to leave a bruise upon her shin.

“How amusing you are, Vivienne,” Madeline said firmly. “We all know that I am the quiet one of the family.”

Vivienne, blissfully oblivious to the message Madeline was trying to send, giggled so hard that she could barely speak. “You? You talk more than all of us put together! Remember how our old nursemaid used to say as much?”

“I have forgotten the chatter of that madwoman,” Madeline said firmly.

“How could you? She was the one who said that you had boldness enough for all eight of us and to spare!”

Elizabeth hooted. “Remember when she tried to gag you to make you silent for a morning?”

Madeline felt her color rise at Rhys’ sidelong glance. “I do not recall.”

“How could you forget? Truly, Madeline, you are not yourself this night.” To Madeline’s disgust, her sister tapped Rhys upon the arm as if they were old comrades. “She must be simply astonished, sir.”

“This night’s circumstance is certainly an uncommon one,” Rhys acknowledged.

Vivienne smiled. “Oh, but I assure you that my sister is always more vivacious than this. She is practical, but also outspoken. You can rely upon Madeline, sir, to tell you her thoughts but also to be of aid.”

“Vivienne!”

Rhys sipped of his ale and Madeline could have sworn that he smiled. “There is nothing akin to the teasing of a sister,” he said so softly that Vivienne could not hear him.

Madeline was surprised to find his tone of rueful affection such a perfect echo of her thoughts. “You must have sisters yourself.”

A shadow touched his face and Madeline found herself intrigued. “Four I had, once,” he admitted and looked away.

“How can you not have such sisters any longer?”

Rhys stared across the hall for a long moment, as if he had not heard her. “They are all dead, my lady.”

Madeline was shocked. He said nothing more, but his grim countenance was enough to tear at her heart. “I am sorry.”

“As am I.” He brushed his fingertips across her hand and Madeline felt a warmth in her belly, though whether it was due to his gentle touch or his confession, she could not say. She felt a flush stain her cheeks and dropped her gaze to hide her awareness of him.

Then she wondered whether his confession was truth, or a falsehood intended to soften her resistance to him.

Vivienne was suddenly attentive again, as if sensing that she had missed something.

“Perhaps I am slightly more quiet than usual,” Madeline said, “because I have never experienced the eve of my own wedding afore.”

Vivienne sobered at that. “Oh, but you must not fret about the morrow, Madeline. You will be the most beauteous bride that Ravensmuir has ever seen, I know it well, even if Uncle Tynan does not see fit to surrender more pearls for the hem of your kirtle. The blue samite suits you so well. Rosamunde speaks rightly when she says all will be perfect.”

Madeline bit her tongue lest she comment that the appearance of her wedding day was not uppermost in her concerns. It was her intent, after all, to let Rhys believe her amenable to this folly.

“Then I am reassured,” she said stiffly. She took a sip of her ale lest she say more.

“You, the quiet one,” Vivienne murmured, then shook her head. “I should tell Alexander of that jest.”

“Perhaps it is concern with wedding a stranger that has stolen the lady’s tongue,” Rhys suggested.

Madeline felt her color rise that her fear had been so clearly identified, no less that it had been so named by the one who should have known her least of all.

“No less a stranger of such dark repute,” Rhys amended and Madeline knew she flushed crimson.

Vivienne’s eyes widened. “Is there truly a price upon your head?” she asked with an admiration that was certainly undeserved.

Rhys only nodded.

“Of course, you are unjustly condemned,” Vivienne said with conviction. “And the king will pardon you and beg your forgiveness and it will be as romantic as an old tale. Rosamunde knows you, after all!”

That Rosamunde knew all manners of scoundrels and rogues made this endorsement less compelling than Madeline would have preferred.

Vivienne chattered on, much enamored of the tale she wove. “Perhaps Madeline will even have to ride to the king’s court to beg his clemency.”

Elizabeth shivered in delight. “Would that not be a marvel?”

Rhys seemed to be fighting that smile again.

“It might be folly.” Madeline could not keep silent any longer.

Vivienne frowned. “How so?”

“Perhaps the king has named the crime rightly.”

“Perhaps he has,” Rhys agreed so easily that the matter could not particularly concern him.

“Then it would scarcely be sensible to not feel some trepidation in wedding such a man,” Madeline said more sharply than she had intended, then struggled to compose herself. “Might we discuss some other matter? The rain, perhaps?”

“It rains, as always it does in spring,” Vivienne said dismissively, then leaned toward Rhys again. “Are you guilty of treason, sir?”

“Vivienne!”

“Surely you desire to know the truth of it?” Vivienne asked with scorn that one sister reserves solely for another. “You are to wed the man, after all.”

Madeline bit her tongue so that she did not insult her spouse. She felt him watching her and feigned a fascination with her napkin. His gaze was so intent that she feared he had guessed her plan to flee.

“Perhaps the lady is unconvinced that I will surrender the truth,” Rhys said with care. “To tell a falsehood would be a much lesser crime than treason, after all.”

Vivienne looked much impressed by this reasoning, though Madeline fought to hide her surprise. How could this stranger guess her thoughts so readily, when her entire family seemed unable to comprehend her?

“A traitor in our very ranks,” Vivienne said, again showing unnecessary awe. “But why was the charge made against you? Do you mean to unseat the king? Will you be captured in the night and dragged to the gallows?”

Rhys’ eyes narrowed slightly. “You need not fear for your sister’s safety in my company. As for the accusations against me, I have found that a dangerous repute keeps wolves from one’s door.”

“How reassuring,” Madeline said, and took a quaff of ale. Vivienne turned to answer some query from Alexander and Madeline bristled beneath the full weight of Rhys’ attention.

* * *

“Are you fearful?” Rhys asked so quietly that none could hear him save Madeline herself. She was irked that he should be the one to show her compassion and found anger claiming her tongue, despite her intent to be demure.

“What of it? A man who buys a bride at auction cannot be concerned with that lady’s fears.” She turned to glare at him and was surprised to catch his smile. She stared, for the expression transformed him, making him look younger and more handsome.

“Finally, the lady deigns to speak her thoughts,” he mused, that smile lighting the darkness of his eyes. He lifted his cup as if in tribute to her. He sipped of his wine, his gaze unswerving from her own.

Madeline stared at him, for she had always been rebuked for speaking her thoughts clearly. “And what is that to mean?”

Rhys, though, did not appear to mind. “That I would have expected to be singed by the fire of your anger afore this.”

Madeline forced herself to recall that she meant to win his trust. She summoned a smile with an effort.

“There, you disguise your thoughts again,” he said softly.

Madeline straightened. “Perhaps I am more pleased at the prospect of finally being wedded than fearful.”

“To a traitor? Your family must be a deceitful lot indeed.” Rhys’ smile still curved his lips and took the sting from his words. Madeline had the sense that he provoked her, and she was provoked, but newly determined to hide her thoughts.

“Oh a man’s repute is not the same as his truth,” she said so sweetly that her teeth fairly ached. “Doubtless your deeds have been misunderstood or misrepresented by your foes.”

Rhys leaned on the board, bending toward her so that he was dangerously close. Madeline could smell his very flesh, but worse, she could see the twinkle in his eyes. “You grant me much credit, my lady, considering that I have done little to earn such devotion.”

Madeline touched his hand, more fleetingly than she had intended. “You have bought a bride, sir, and there is nothing I can do but be happy about that fact.”

He claimed her hand when she would have pulled it away and she quivered at the heat of his flesh pressed against her own. “Is there not?” he asked softly, so softly that Madeline guessed that he knew she lied.

She smiled with gritted teeth, fairly writhing beneath his steady perusal. “I am certain we shall be happy indeed.”

“As am I,” he murmured. “Though I had no expectation that our thoughts would be as one so very soon. Let us celebrate our agreement with vigor, then.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eye that warned Madeline. Before she could respond, he had caught her nape in his hand with gentle resolve and his mouth had closed determinedly over hers once again. The company hooted with delight and began to pound their cups upon the board.

Madeline had the sense that Rhys tried to provoke her again, to prod her into showing some response to him. She was tempted to push him away, to slap him before the entire company in retaliation for his boldness.

He deserved no less and doubtless he knew it. Even Vivienne gasped in awe beside them.

Madeline just barely recalled her plan to allay his suspicions. She sighed, as if well content, and let her hands land upon his shoulders. It was not so difficult to do.

Rhys needed no more encouragement than that. He deepened his kiss, pulling her closer with the ease of one more accustomed to sharing such bold embraces than she. He was gentle, though, for all the surprise of his amorous assault.

And then it was too late to retreat. This kiss was different from his first salute. It was no less thrilling, and awakened no less heat in her belly. But this kiss was possessive and demanding. It called for her, not to surrender, but to join him in the pursuit of pleasure. Her very blood quickened and her lips parted. She heard herself gasp as his tongue darted between her lips, teasing and tasting her.

And she wanted more.

* * *

In the midst of Rhys’ kiss, Madeline realized a shocking truth. James had kissed her, to be sure, but never had he claimed her mouth with such possessive ardor. Never had he slipped his tongue between her lips, never had he locked his hands around her waist and pulled her so close that her breasts were crushed against his chest.

Never had she liked his kiss so much as she liked this one from Rhys. And never had her pulse raced so madly in the circle of James’ embrace. It was not so difficult to pretend to enjoy Rhys’ caress, for every fiber of Madeline responded to his sure touch.

She pulled away with an effort, aware that she was only able to do so because Rhys released her. She flushed furiously when the company burst into applause and took a long draught of her ale to hide her discomfiture.

It was solely the fact that this would be the last kiss Rhys ever granted her that had persuaded her to make the most of it. That was the truth of it, Madeline assured herself. It was solely that Alexander squirmed to see her handled like a whore before her nuptials and she yearned to pay her brother back for his scheme.

Despite her ready explanation, Madeline felt flustered as she never had before. Her own body called her a liar. She was no less aware of the way Rhys watched her.

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. Madeline caught her breath and squared her shoulders as the company hollered for more. She certainly felt no yearning to kiss Rhys FitzHenry again. That would not have been sensible.

Even though her pulse yet raced and her very blood simmered.

Rhys smiled wickedly, seemingly aware of his effect upon her. His warm fingertip sliding across her cheek as he tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “That is more like the wife I expect to meet,” he murmured.

Madeline glanced his way, not entirely understanding him. “The wife or the whore?”

“You are not so meek as to accept this fate as you would have me believe,” he said, his gaze shrewd. “You are too passionate to readily accept such indignity as you have endured this day. Do not lie to me, my lady, and our match will fare well. All I ask of you is loyalty.”

“All?”

“And sons, of course.”

Madeline could not look away from the intensity of his gaze. She was half-persuaded that he tried to compel a confession from her lips of her scheme to escape. His eyes were bright, his manner sure.

But he could not know. He could not have read her thoughts.

Madeline granted him a smile. “There is no merit in anger, my lord, when one cannot change one’s fate. I am simply accepting of what will be mine, as a woman should be.”

Rhys snorted. “You know as well as I do that one can always change one’s fate.”

“But not necessarily to a better end.” Madeline saw that she had his attention. “You should know the root of my argument with my brother. I refused to wed any man, because my heart is no longer mine to grant.”

Rhys stilled then, though he did not look away.

“My betrothed died.”

To Madeline’s surprise, that compassion again shone in Rhys’ eyes. “I am sorry, my lady.”

Madeline smiled ruefully. “I thank you for the sentiment, though you cannot be so sorry as I am,” she said, forcing herself to sound demure. “James is gone, though my heart is his forever. I would have chosen not to wed, rather than offer less than my all to a spouse.” She sighed. “My brother, though, saw matters otherwise.”

“It could be argued that he is concerned for your future.”

“It could be argued that if he will be rid of me by such means as an auction, then he cannot be trusted either to leave me be, or to find me a spouse by any more fitting manner.”

Madeline spoke more heatedly than she had intended, and she doubted that the watchful man by her side had missed as much. She tried to smile with a great measure of resignation. “I can wed you, or I can await Alexander’s next scheme. My choices are few, and wedding you would seem to be the best of them.”

“I would wager that all will look better on the morrow,” Rhys said with care. “You have endured much indignity this day, after all.”

Sympathy was the last honor Madeline desired from this man. Indeed, the man softened her resistance with nigh every word he uttered and every deed he did! She had to be away from Ravensmuir afore they exchanged vows, afore she forgot the truth of his past.

For any man could summon charm for a single night. Madeline desired more than one night’s consideration from whatever man she would wed.

“Doubtless you speak aright,” she agreed, thinking that she would be far away indeed by then. “A sound night’s sleep reduces the most insurmountable challenge.”

He fought that smile again, seemingly amused that she implied him to be such a challenge. Before Madeline could repair her error, Rhys lifted his cup and touched it to her own. “To our nuptials on the morrow, my lady. May they mark a new beginning for both of us.”

Madeline drank to his toast, feeling more deceitful than she knew she should have done.

* * *

The lady had a scheme.

Rhys would have wagered his precious destrier upon it. It was beyond belief that the woman so outraged at her brother’s intent to auction her could have made her peace with her fate so readily as that. Indeed, she fought to hide that anger with every comment she made, her flashing eyes revealing that she was not demure in the least.

Rhys knew his charms, such as they were, and knew his reputation well enough that he could be certain no woman would have been hasty to pledge herself to him for all eternity.

Certainly not a woman of such splendid intellect as Madeline.

Indeed, he found his lady even more intriguing for the fact that she tried to disarm him, to deceive him, to persuade him that he could not want her as his wife. Madeline was clever, and not accustomed to matching wits with another as clever as she.

That bode well indeed for their match.

Rhys waited and he watched, drinking little of the ale and finally feigning exhaustion. He was as wide awake as a cat upon the hunt, though there was no need for any other soul in Ravensmuir’s hall to guess as much.

Eventually the company grew quiet, their yawns became more lengthy, and the fires burned down to glowing coals. The ladies retired to a chamber in the tower, and Rhys rose and claimed Madeline’s hand as she left the high table.

She watched him for a moment, her eyes filled with shadows, then to his astonishment leaned closer. “Are you truly charged with treason against the king?” she whispered.

Rhys wished he could have lied, for he knew that a falsehood alone would settle her fears. Instead he nodded. “I am.”

He thought that he could hear the flutter of her heart then, reminding him again of that captive bird, then she spun and left his side. He knew that he did not imagine the fear that shone in her eyes.

But there was not a man alive who could change his past deeds. Rhys reminded himself that it was more admirable to confess the truth, though his heart called him a fool. He noted how Madeline cast a last glance back over the hall as she climbed the stairs, and did not doubt that she believed she would never see him again.

She would flee this night, and he would pursue her, and they would be wed all the same. He could have told her that it was not so easy to be rid of Rhys FitzHenry as that.

Rhys noted that Reginald watched Madeline until she was out of sight, then saw that man’s lips thin with displeasure. Reginald cast a poisonous glance in Rhys’ direction. Rhys held the other man’s gaze steadily, daring him to make an issue of what had transpired.

Reginald turned away, summoning his squires like a hen gathering chicks, insisting that proper arrangements be made for his slumber. Rhys quietly claimed a pallet and gathered his cloak about himself, taking a place where he could watch the stairs. Candles were snuffed and snores began to echo through the hall.

Rhys settled onto his pallet, one eye half open, pretended to sleep and waited. He knew that Madeline’s last kiss at the board, and her unexpected surrender to his demanding embrace, would keep his blood simmering all the night.

He did not have to wait long.

* * *

Madeline could have respected Rhys’ honesty, had he told her a more reassuring truth. Traitors, she well knew, met fearsome fates; their spouses, children and property faring little better. Her very marrow still hummed from Rhys’ tempting kiss, and she knew that he would quickly overcome her good sense with his beguiling touch. Though she was afraid of fleeing alone in the night, she was more afraid of Rhys FitzHenry.

Madeline was surprised when Rosamunde tugged her sleeve, half persuaded that her perceptive aunt had guessed her intent.

“Come with me for a moment,” Rosamunde said, her manner mysterious and her voice low. Madeline’s sisters continued to the ladies’ chamber, unaware that they were unattended.

“No harm will come to them,” Rosamunde said when Madeline hesitated. “I would fulfill my pledge to your mother.”

Madeline needed no more persuasion than that to follow her aunt. Rosamunde was garbed in a splendid kirtle of deep sapphire blue, its hem thick with golden embroidery, and its cut favoring the lithe curves of her figure. Her girdle was rich beyond belief and studded with gems; her hair hung loose to her hips like a cascade of rose gold. Although dressed in feminine splendor, there was a determination to Rosamunde’s stride that was unfitting for a lady.

Rosamunde led Madeline to the laird’s solar with a familiarity unexpected. Madeline’s eyes widened, and she fought to hold her silence. She had heard rumors about the intimacy of the older pair, of course, but she had always believed such tales untrue.

Rosamunde turned and smiled. “In here, we can be certain to be alone. This is a responsibility to be discharged in privacy.”

Tynan’s chamber was richly adorned and a fire had already been kindled in the fireplace for his comfort. It blazed merrily, casting the chamber in a welcoming glow. Maiden and aunt made as one for the pair of stools set close to the hearth.

Rosamunde shivered. “I shall never grow accustomed to the chill of this country,” she muttered, then pulled a velvet sack from her lavish skirts. “This is for you.” She smiled at Madeline as she placed the small bag in her hands.

The sack was square, less in each dimension than the first two digits of her finger. Madeline could hide it easily in her palm and she marveled at the richness of its purple hue. It was embroidered in gold so richly that it was a treasure in itself, the gold thread making a radiant star against the velvet. A twisted golden cord fastened the small sack closed, the cord’s length sufficient that the sack could be hung around one’s neck like a gem. It was light, so light she assumed it empty.

“Is this silken velvet?” Madeline asked with awe.

Rosamunde laughed. “Doubtless, but this is a mere repository. The true gift is inside.”

Madeline regarded her aunt for a moment, then loosed the cord.

“Use care!” Rosamunde counseled and bent closer.

Madeline tipped the small sack and a sphere the size of her fingernail spilled into her palm. It might have been a bead of water, but it was hard and gleamed in the firelight.

“It is called the Tear of the Virgin,” Rosamunde breathed. “And said to have been shed by Mary at the crucifixion.”

Madeline regarded the gem in wonder as her aunt spoke.

“Though Mary knew that Jesus died to save all of mankind, he was yet her only son: she mourned him, as any mother would do. And it is said that God looked down upon this weak vessel of a woman, her tears shedding like gems, and he felt compassion that she endured such loss for the gain of her fellows. It is said that He turned four and twenty of her tears to gems, in tribute to her grief.”

“There are more of these marvels?”

Rosamunde shrugged. “I cannot say. This is only one I have ever seen, and I only heard the tale from your grandfather, Merlyn.”

“But I thought Grandfather shunned the relics?”

“He shunned the family trade in them, to be sure, but he had a reverence for those he thought to be genuine.” Rosamunde gestured to the gem in Madeline’s palm and smiled in recollection. “This was one for which he professed a fondness. Indeed, he gave it to your mother on the night before her nuptials.”

Madeline glanced up in surprise, and Rosamunde nodded. “Merlyn told her, she said, that he would have given this to his daughter upon her wedding. Since he had no blood daughter, he hoped that Catherine would accept it. Merlyn and Ysabella considered your mother as their daughter, for she wed their son, Roland.”

Madeline’s hand closed over the gem, seemingly of its own will, so precious was any link to her mother. She fought against her own tears, so potent were the presences of her grandparents and parents in this chamber. She knew that Merlyn and Ysabella had rebuilt Ravensmuir and occupied this chamber themselves for many years. She knew that it had been granted to her parents for their nuptial night and that Merlyn had oft jested that his grandson, Alexander, had been wrought in his own bed.

She swallowed with an effort, feeling the embrace of ghosts around her. “And now you grant it to me afore my own wedding,” she said, her voice husky.

“Your mother desired as much.” Rosamunde settled back and stared into the flames. “You will not recall this, for little has been said of it of late, but I was one of your godmothers.”

“You were?” Madeline was surprised yet again, though the merriment in Rosamunde’s eyes made her believe the tale.

“Against all expectation!” Rosamunde chuckled. “Though I was not your mother’s first choice, and I was not granted the task alone, even then, I am the last of your godmothers surviving.” She sobered. “Indeed, I am the last of all women charged with your upbringing to survive.”

Madeline glanced away, feeling her mother’s absence keenly.

Rosamunde’s hand fell over her own, its warmth a comfort. Madeline wondered whether she imagined that her aunt’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “I have always had a fondness for you, Madeline. Perhaps your mother saw into my own heart when she granted me this precious duty.” Rosamunde gave Madeline’s hand a minute squeeze. “But the fact remains that at your christening, your mother entrusted this gem to my care. She asked me to grant it to you on the eve afore your nuptials, just as Merlyn had granted it to her, and to tell of the gem. It was the sole duty she expected of me, this she said, and thus I fulfill it in her honor.”

Madeline swallowed and looked back at her aunt. “What of the gem?”

“It is said to possess a kind of power, though I cannot vouch for the truth of it. Your mother confided only the tale to me, that I might deliver it to you with the gem. It is said that the Tear feels the weight of sorrow, in keeping with its origins, and that it will change hue to warn its bearer of ill tidings. Perhaps it is Mary herself who would warn the bearer. I cannot say.”

Madeline feared then that her intent to escape Ravensmuir and avoid her wedding ceremony was evident to her perceptive aunt, and that Rosamunde meant to dissuade her.

But Rosamunde frowned at Madeline’s closed fist. “It is said that the stone will turn black when ill fortune lies ahead for its bearer, and that it will shine when all will be well.”

“Do you believe as much?”

Rosamunde smiled. “There are many things that make little sense to us, many mysteries that may never be solved. Perhaps this is one of them; perhaps it is but a pretty quartz gem with a tale. Either way, you hold a token of goodwill from your mother in your hand, an heirloom passed through your family, and that is of no small merit.”

Madeline caressed the gem in her grip. “Am I to grant it to my first daughter on the eve of her wedding?”

Rosamunde smiled. “I would wager that Merlyn would approve of that.”

Madeline glanced away as she blinked back her tears and fingered the cord. “Did Maman wear it?”

Rosamunde nodded. “Catherine wore the gem on her breast on her wedding day. Though I was not here, it was said that the Tear shone with a radiance to rival the sun.”

“Then perhaps its power is genuine.” Madeline’s fingers fairly itched to open and reveal the hue of the stone, but she wanted to view it alone.

“Perhaps. Your parents did possess a great love for each other, one that only grew as the years passed. Remember them merry, Madeline. It is the best remembrance you can grant.”

The women sat in silence for a moment as Madeline struggled to do as she was bidden. Their deaths were so recent that she had not begun to remember her mother’s joyful laugh, or the way her father’s eyes had twinkled when he teased any one of them.

Rosamunde cleared her throat. “Catherine also wrought this sack for the gem, with her own needle, to ensure its safety. Hidden or displayed, she wore it night and day until you were born.” Rosamunde pushed to her feet, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Then she entrusted it to me, though I never imagined I would deliver it without her beside me.”

“Rosamunde, you were the sole person in the hall who admitted to knowing Rhys FitzHenry,” Madeline said softly.

Rosamunde nodded, and waited, eyes bright.

“Alexander said he was not invited.”

“Not by Alexander. He arrived earlier on a mission of his own, and summoned me. He asked for the reason of the gathering, and when I told him of it, admitted to curiosity.” Rosamunde shrugged. “And so I saw him admitted, with no realization that he too had need of a wife. Rhys has always been most solitary.”

“But you did not forbid him from participating.”

Rosamunde smiled. “It seemed to me, Madeline, that you might die of boredom wed to a man of Alexander’s choosing.”

“Will I die of some other malady wed to this traitor?”

Rosamunde laughed beneath her breath, a most odd reaction in Madeline’s thinking. “A man’s repute is not the same as his truth, Madeline.” She rose and smoothed her skirts, which surely were in need of no smoothing, then cleared her throat. “I must attend your sisters. With the hall full of men with their bellies full of drink, I would ensure that they are all maidens on the morrow.”

“I would sit here for a moment.” Madeline raised her fist, tightened around the gem, to her lips. The Tear seemed to throb within her grasp.

Rosamunde touched her shoulder with affection. “Do not put too much stock in old tales, Madeline. A marriage is what man and wife make of it, and Rhys has spent sufficient coin that his attentiveness should be assured.”

It was not the most reassuring thing Rosamunde might have said, but she departed in a swirl of silk afore Madeline could ask for more details of Rhys.

Not that it mattered overmuch. Madeline would be gone before the morrow, gone before her nuptials, gone before Rhys could claim her hand forevermore. First she would look into the gem, though, and hope for some assurance. She held her breath, unfurled her fingers and let the firelight touch the gem within her hand.

The Tear might have been wrought of obsidian, so dark was it. The gem was black to its very core, with nary a flicker of light within its depths. Madeline’s heart froze, then raced. She pushed the stone back into the small velvet sack with shaking fingers, secured it, then looped the cord around her neck.

She had to flee. She had chosen aright, for even the stone forecast an ill fate if she remained at Ravensmuir and wed Rhys FitzHenry.

Chapter Four

Ravensmuir was silent, save for the snores of men and hounds. Madeline could hear the patter of rain upon the stones, and the lap of the sea against the shore. The wind had died down, though still it rained mightily.

Her sisters slept deeply, their pallets surrounding her own. The younger girls had been particularly excited this night at the prospect of a wedding, and had taken cursedly long to settle onto their pallets. Elizabeth in particular had insisted upon talking to herself, as if she was truly talking to the invisible fairy. Madeline had been certain that the girl would never fall asleep.

But now, in the quiet of the night, the sole obstacle to Madeline’s departure was her aunt Rosamunde, who had declared herself sentry over them all.

Madeline rolled over and peered through her lashes in the direction of her aunt. That woman sat on a bench by the portal. Rosamunde yawned fully, then folded her arms across her chest, her eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Madeline bit her lip, considering her course.

Neither of them saw the spriggan Darg, who danced around Rosamunde with vengeful delight. Neither of them saw Darg snarl and knot and tangle the golden ribbon emanating from Rosamunde—which neither of them saw either—and neither of them heard the fairy’s spiteful little song.

Perhaps it was just as well. Darg did not have a melodious voice.

Madeline had just decided to lie to her aunt, and claim that she had to go to the privy, when there was a light knock upon the portal. It was so faint a sound that Madeline barely heard it. She saw her aunt turn, saw the heavy wood door open slightly.

“Surely you do not mean to sit here sleepless all the night long?” someone asked in a soft whisper. It was a man’s voice, though Madeline could not see who spoke. She watched Rosamunde smile and knew she had seen that smile afore.

It was Uncle Tynan, Madeline would wager.

Unobserved by all of the mortals present, Darg pounced upon Tynan’s silver ribbon and began to shred it, as well as put knots in it worthy of a rat’s nest.

“And what else would I do?” Rosamunde murmured, her tone mischievous. “I have no other way to fill the hours of the night.”

“How tragic,” Tynan mused. “I would be a poor host to not offer better circumstance to a guest.”

Rosamunde laughed lightly. She reached through the gap of the open portal, her smile broadening. “And what do you offer to me, Laird of Ravensmuir?”

“There is one soft bed that is broad enough to be shared.”

“With whom shall I share it?”

Rosamunde gasped as her hand was evidently tugged. She disappeared in a flurry of skirts through the open door and Madeline closed her eyes at the sound of a very affectionate embrace. She thought of Rhys kissing her with such gusto and her face burned.

“But the girls...” Rosamunde protested, her voice oddly breathless.

“Can slumber well enough without you.”

“But...”

Tynan interrupted her with resolve. “While I cannot.”

“You do not mean to slumber, sir,” Rosamunde said, her laughter undermining her supposed outrage.

“Nor do you,” Tynan retorted.

“Trust a man to insist upon his way alone.”

“It is a way you have found satisfactory enough in the past.”

Rosamunde sighed and more amorous sounds carried to Madeline’s ears. She stared at the ceiling, understanding rather more of her aunt and uncle’s relationship than she had before, and uncertain whether she was glad of it.

The door was closed with a firm click, then Tynan’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. The sound of Rosamunde’s whispers faded, then another portal was closed.

It was locked with a resounding echo of the tumblers.

This was her chance.

Madeline slipped from her pallet and donned her boots, her hands shaking in her haste. She had gone to bed in her stockings and her chemise, complaining that she was cold when her sisters commented. She pulled her thickest wool kirtle over her head, pilfered the purses of her sisters for stray coins, and claimed Vivienne’s new fur-lined woolen cloak. She took her own eating knife, shoving it into her belt, and crept to the portal.

Her heart was thundering so loudly that she feared it would awaken all the household. Madeline swallowed and squared her shoulders, blew a farewell kiss to her sisters, then slipped into the shadowed corridor.

She could have taken a maid, or one of her sisters, but Madeline feared to endanger a companion unnecessarily. Alone, she could pretend to be a village lass—having a servant might arouse suspicion. She was deeply afraid, yet excited in a way. She had never traveled alone before, but surely she was keen enough of wit to ensure her own safety. She had always been the practical one, after all.

First, she had to get through the crowded hall.

Then, she had to steal a horse.

Then, she had to get through the closed gates of Ravensmuir without alerting the sentinels to her departure.

Truly, the odds were against her in this endeavor. Madeline said a silent prayer and made her way along the corridor as furtively as she could manage. Fortunately, she would have a good bit of time to consider precisely where she would flee once she was through Ravensmuir’s gates.

And even Darg was not witness to Madeline’s departure.

* * *

Madeline’s palms were slick with sweat by the time she reached the stables. She had crept through the hall, heart pounding, stepping over and between the sleeping men. Fortunately, her uncle had been generous with his wine and the men slept soundly.

Every sound though, every man rolling over, every dog’s tail wagging in that beast’s sleep, had made her jump for the skies. She had not noticed Rhys, had not looked for him, for the men bundled in their cloaks were virtually indistinguishable from each other and she dared not spare the time.

She had been glad to made the deserted corridor, even if the wind from the sea made her shiver. No one had called a warning, no one had awakened and alerted the household.

Rhys FitzHenry, his dangerous reputation and his even more dangerous kisses, were all behind her, for good.

Madeline heaved a sigh of relief but did not hesitate on the threshold of the stables. She knew the steed she wanted, the palfrey that she had ridden from Kinfairlie. The mare knew her and would be the least likely to nicker in alarm at what she did.

The horses had been moved, to Madeline’s dismay, presumably to make space for the destriers of the arriving men. She wasted precious moments looking for Tarascon, and finally found her sharing a stall with two other palfreys from Kinfairlie.

“Tarascon!” Madeline whispered, knowing the beast would discern her excitement. The mare’s tail swung in recognition of Madeline’s voice and she began to turn, her companion horses stirring from sleep as well.

“Tarascon, make not a sound! All of you be still, for I have brought you treats from the hall.” Madeline’s fingers fumbled with the latch and she hastened into the shadowed stall, intent only on reassuring the horses before the ostler awakened.

They immediately surrounded her, nuzzling her cloak, seeking any treat. Tarascon nipped Madeline’s braid with affection and nigh flattened her against the wall of the stalls. Madeline laughed beneath her breath, and offered the trio of apples that she had seized from the food yet littering the hall. So concerned was she in finding Tarascon’s saddle that Madeline did not realize that she was no longer alone.

Not until the man cleared his throat.

* * *

At the sound, Madeline jumped and bit back a scream.

A fair-haired man smiled amiably as he leaned upon the door of the stall. “Is it customary to feed Ravensmuir’s horses in the night? And that without the ostler’s awareness?”

“Kerr!” Madeline whispered, her knees weak in her relief. Kerr was a man-at-arms who had served at Kinfairlie for as long as she could remember. “You frightened me beyond belief!”

He scowled with the affection of an older brother. “There should be some soul watching over you, Lady Madeline, for it is not fitting for you to be about the keep while it is filled with fighting men.” He shook his head. “Even worse, they are fighting men who have had their fill of drink and then some.” He shook a finger at her. “You should be locked in your chamber with your sisters.”

Madeline chose to confide him. “I must flee, Kerr, and I must flee this night.”

He pursed his lips. “You mean to avoid your nuptials.” It was not a question, though Madeline nodded quickly. She would have explained but Kerr held up his hand. “You need not tell me more of it, Lady Madeline. I have always thought you to be a sensible lass, and in this, you show me to be right. Rhys FitzHenry is a dangerous man, one with a price upon his head for treason. No woman could be blamed for trying to avoid a match with him.”

“Indeed, Kerr...”

He shook that finger again, his manner scolding. “But you are a fool and then some to consider departing alone. You cannot know what or who you will meet upon the road, nor what dangers you will face. No lady should travel alone in these times.”

“But Kerr, I could not ask a maid or one of my sisters to accompany me and Rosamunde would not have agreed to do so.” Madeline sighed. “She seems to have an affection for Rhys, which I cannot explain.”

“Birds of a feather, no doubt, my lady,” Kerr said darkly. “Your aunt has lived outside the bounds of law for so long, if you will forgive my speaking bluntly, that she sees only good in a fellow rogue and not his wickedness.”

Madeline turned back to her steed, glad that she was familiar with saddling it herself. “I thank you for your counsel, Kerr, but I must leave afore my absence is noted.”

“But you will not go alone,” the burly Scotsman insisted.

Madeline glanced up, surprised at his tone.

“If you insist upon going, my lady, then I will escort you to a safe haven. I owe your father’s memory that much, at least.”

Madeline smiled, relieved by his offer. “My uncle and brother will not be pleased with you, Kerr.”

He shrugged. “They are not the only lairds in Christendom with coin to hire a fighting man.” He sobered and granted her a level glance. “And there are times, my lady, when a man must do what he must do, and let the consequences be as they will be.”

“I thank you, Kerr.”

“Hasten yourself,” he said gruffly, glancing over his shoulder with the manner of one uncomfortable with a lady’s gratitude. “There are many at Ravensmuir who sleep lightly this night.”

* * *

Dawn touched the eastern sky before Kerr finally called a halt. Madeline was exhausted, so unaccustomed was she to missing a night of sleep. At least the rain had halted shortly after their departure, and though their course was muddy, she had not been drenched. Kerr indicated a gully and she turned Tarascon in that direction. The palfrey moved with purpose once she heard the hidden stream that flowed there.

Meeting Kerr in the stables had been an uncommon stroke of fortune. Madeline did not know how he had coaxed the gatekeeper to open Ravensmuir’s double portcullis, nor did she know how he had found a path across the wilderness of the moors.

There had been a course though, or at least one visible to any soul who already knew it to be there, and it had avoided the towns and abbeys. The only town they had passed close had been Galashiels, slumbering as it had been.

The rising sun showed hills around then and little else, hills that were more verdant than the ones near Kinfairlie and of a more gentle inclination. Madeline could no longer smell the sea, and she guessed that they had taken a course southward with a slight inclination to the west.

But she had no quibbles. She realized now that she could never have managed her escape alone, so limited was her experience in such journeying. During the night’s ride, it had occurred to her where she might go—she could try to discover the truth of James’ demise herself. She wondered if she had coin enough to hire Kerr to aid her in such a quest, for she would have to go to France.

They had ridden in such silence for all the night that she had not had the opportunity or the will to ask him as much, not as yet. Kerr was not a man who said much, but Madeline trusted his abilities. He could not have been more than a decade older than she, though he had lived more roughly, to be sure.

But she was glad of his competence, and even more glad that they would halt shortly.

Despite the fact that the rain had ceased, Madeline was damp and chilly and filled with aches. She had not complained at this unfamiliar hardship, for there were many miles between herself and Rhys FitzHenry. It was only now that the household of Ravensmuir would be awakening, only now that her absence might be discovered.

Thanks to Kerr, none would find her soon. Madeline granted him a smile. He did not return it, merely flicked a glance her way before his narrowed gaze scanned the horizon again. There was more gorse here, thick along the gully, and Madeline understood his trepidation. There might be all manner of wild creatures taking shelter here, who might take exception to being roused.

Perhaps she was a fool, but Madeline was too tired to care. Let the wolves come upon her, if they dared. She would wash her face. Madeline dismounted, grateful for the change of posture, and stretched her back. She followed Tarascon down the steep bank of the gully, sat upon a rock and bent to lift the cold water in her cupped hands.

It was blessedly cold. Madeline heard Kerr and his destrier descending the slope behind her. Tarascon waded in the stream, drinking noisily of the water as her tail swished. Madeline bent again, but her hands never reached the surface of the stream.

A gloved hand closed over her mouth and Kerr roughly pulled her back against him. The cold blade of his knife touched Madeline’s throat.

She tried to scream but Kerr’s blade only cut deeper. “Make a sound, lass, and I will cut out your tongue afore I have you.”

Madeline whimpered against his glove, so astonished was she. At the press of the blade, she fell silent.

“That is better, lass.” Kerr removed his hand from her mouth. He spun her to face him, gripping her bodice and tearing the front of her kirtle in one gesture.

Madeline gasped as the cold air touched her bared breasts. She backed away, biting back her scream lest she vex him further.

“I have wanted to see those for many a year,” he said, his gaze devouring the sight of her. A cruel smile claimed his lips. “And I shall have my due, though I could never have paid your brother’s price.”

“But, but you, my father...”

“Your father knew my desires well enough.” Kerr laughed. “Why do you think I left Kinfairlie last year? But he was fool enough to not confide in his son, so Alexander was quick to hire me back.” Kerr smirked. “You nobles all think you are so clever.”

Madeline realized that Kerr’s breeches were already unfastened. She could see his prick and could have no doubt of his intent.

“Come here, for I have waited long enough. I will have my due now and I will have it time and again until I am sated.” Kerr reached for her and Madeline ran.

Kerr swore and lunged after her. He caught a fistful of her hair, dragging her to a painful halt. Tarascon whinnied and turned to aid her mistress, but Kerry slashed at the steed’s flank with his knife. His stroke was brutally effective—the horse fled as the long deep wound began to bleed profusely.

Madeline screamed.

Kerr struck her across the face. “I bade you be quiet!”

“But my horse! You cut her apurpose!”

Kerr tightened his grip upon Madeline’s hair, winding the length of it around his fist. “It is but a horse,” he said with a sneer.

Madeline feared that she had seen but a small measure of his cruelty. She had no doubt that she would bear the worst of it, and her heart leapt in terror.

She dared not make a sound of protest.

Kerr smiled coldly. “I have waited long enough for this moment that I will bear no interruption.” He gave Madeline a shake. “You knew I watched you in your father’s abode. You felt the weight of my gaze upon you and tempted me apurpose, for you wanted this as much as I.”

“No! I...”

“Silence!” He waved the knife beneath her nose. “Now, lift your skirts, wench, and offer yourself to me.” He leaned closer, his breath upon her very cheek. “Sweetly, my Madeline.”

There was fury and lust in his eyes, as well as a determination that did not bode well for Madeline’s fate. Would she leave this creek alive? She did not imagine so.

Anger burned within Madeline, anger that pushed her fear aside. How dare he blame her for his unholy lust? How dare he declare that she had tempted him? Somehow she had to evade him.

She dared not let Kerr glimpse her intent, so she lowered her gaze as if embarrassed.

“You speak the truth, Kerr,” she said meekly. “No other man could have guessed my thoughts so well as you.”

“I knew it! Tell me you have dreamed of this moment.”

Madeline swallowed her rising bile. “Of course I have dreamed of this moment.” She could not summon any conviction to her words, but they seemed to please him. She swallowed, then began to lift her skirts in apparent compliance. “I have dreamed only of you.”

Kerr chuckled when he could see her knees and his prick danced with enthusiasm.

Madeline took a shaking breath and raised the hem of her kirtle higher. Her hands were trembling, both with anger and the need to deceive him.

The wool cleared the top of her stockings and her garters. Kerr caught his breath in anticipation when he spied her bare thighs. Madeline guessed that he was as distracted as he would be afore this deed was done. She let one hand trail to her waist, relying upon the fact that the other lifted her skirts yet higher to keep Kerr distracted.

She seized the small knife in her belt, and slashed suddenly at his hand. To her delight, her blade found the increment of bare flesh between his glove and his sleeve, and it bit deeply. Kerr roared, and Madeline kicked him in the crotch as hard as she was able.

He cursed and loosed his grip upon her hair. This was her sole chance! Madeline leapt away from him, landed knee-deep in the cold water of the stream, and ran.

Kerr swore with unholy vigor. Madeline’s heart thundered in her chest. She crossed the creek with great bounds, cursing the weight of her full wet skirt.

She scrambled up the opposite bank of the gully on all fours, weeping as her boots slipped in the mud. She was blind to the course she took, needing only to put distance between them.

Kerr was fast behind her, his feet landing heavily on the bank as he muttered curses. Madeline did not look back. She seized a tree and pulled herself up the hill as quickly as possible. Her breath came in pants and there was an ache in her side and she dared not slow down.

“Whore!” Kerr shouted. “Thankless bitch! You will get what you deserve soon enough and it will be all the more bitter for your defiance!”

Madeline reached the summit. She did not pause for a single breath before she raced out onto the moor.

“You will not flee far!” Kerr roared.

Madeline heard him behind her, his every step covering twice as much ground as one of her own. She heard his hard breathing and glanced over her shoulder.

His furious expression fairly made her heart stop. He was close behind her, too close.

He leapt and snatched at her.

Madeline ducked, evading his grasp in the last moment, fairly feeling his fingers slide through her hair. He swore. She redoubled her pace in panic, holding her skirts in fistfuls above her knees.

Then she slipped in the mud and fell.

Madeline knew she could not recover her balance, though she tried. Her flight was ended. Kerr would have her now, he would hold her down. He would take her all the more cruelly because she had fled from him.

She heard Kerr’s shout of triumph, heard a curious whistling, then she landed hard against the earth. She winced at the impact, then Kerr landed upon her so heavily that the breath was driven from Madeline’s chest. His head was beside hers, his lips fairly against her ear, the weight of him squarely atop her. She was crushed beneath him, but that was the least of her woes.

Madeline hoped his crime was quickly done. She squeezed her eyes closed, for there was nothing else she could do, and waited for the worst.

* * *

Rosamunde awakened in Ravensmuir’s solar, well content. She did not open her eyes immediately, for it suited her to savor the comfort that surrounded her. Tynan’s bed was wide, its mattress plump, its draperies rich enough even to satisfy Rosamunde’s discerning tastes. His solar was warm, as so few chambers were in this cursedly northern clime, and she smiled at the possibility that he had stoked the fire particularly for her.

It was not so bad a wager she had made, in trading her life on the seas for a life with Tynan. Though she would miss the journeys to foreign ports, it was a relief to sleep fully, knowing that none came to assault her in the night.

Rosamunde stretched a toe across the expanse of the bed, prepared to celebrate their mutual agreement again, but only found cold linens. She shivered, then opened one eye.

Though she was alone in bed, she was not alone in the chamber. Tynan was fully dressed, in deepest indigo as was his custom. His hair was damp, his back toward her. He faced the leaping flames in the fireplace, arms folded across his chest, his handsome features cast into profile. She saw the silver at his temples, the lines from laughter beside his eyes, and her heart softened with the certainty that he was her love and her mate.

“You should return to bed, that we might finish what was begun.” Rosamunde spoke softly, but Tynan jumped all the same.

Almost as if he felt guilt about some matter.

Rosamunde was immediately awake. She sat up, not troubling to cover her bare breasts, and could not fail to note how Tynan simply frowned into the fire.

He cleared his throat, as he oft did when he knew his words would not be welcomed. “If you would be so kind, I would not have you found here when the household awakens.”

A chill slipped down Rosamunde’s spine, but she feigned misunderstanding. “Oh, there is no reason to worry.” She abandoned the warm bed with reluctance, then stretched like a cat. She shook her hair over her shoulders, knowing that he watched her covertly. The desire between them was impossible to ignore, after all. “All know by this time that we are not half-cousins. It is the talk of all that I share no blood with the Lammergeier family who raised me.” She laughed under her breath as she donned a gossamer chemise, then a silken robe rich with embroidery. “If only because it rouses such astonishment that Gawain Lammergeier could have shown such compassion as to raise an unknown babe as his own.”

“So it is,” he agreed coolly. “But I would still have you return to the women’s chamber.”

Rosamunde held his gaze, hoping she hid her newfound fear from him well. “Of what import if I am found in your bed? Most know that I have shared it many a time in the past twelve years.” Rosamunde paused, then named the crux of the matter. “And all will know as soon as our nuptials are announced.”

Tynan pivoted to face the fire again, his shoulders stiff, and Rosamunde knew, she knew what he would say.

“There will be no nuptials between the two of us.”

Her anger surprised her only by its vehemence. “What is this? All these years we have loved, and understood that the sole obstacle between us was my trade in relics!”

“True.”

“And now I have agreed to surrender that trade, to sate you. We will auction the best of the remaining relics, by this agreement.”

“True.”

“I released my crew. I sold my ship! I relinquished all of the elements of my trade that I might settle at Ravensmuir. With you.”

Tynan looked ill at ease. “You have misunderstood my intent. We have no future together, here or elsewhere.”

“You cur! You might have mentioned as much last evening!” Rosamunde crossed the floor and seized his shoulder, compelling him to face her. “You might have recalled such a choice afore seeking your pleasure anew!”

He had the grace to color, but she knew from his eyes that he would not change his thinking. “It is true that I served you poorly, Rosamunde.” His tenderness took the sting from her temper, and she hated that he possessed this much power over her.

Tynan lifted a tendril of her golden red hair between his finger and thumb and rubbed it. He met her gaze. “You are a madness in my very veins. I could not resist one last night together.”

“And you knew I would not grant it to you, had you been man enough to tell me the truth.” Rosamunde did not hide her bitterness as she snatched the curl of her hair from his grasp. “We had an agreement!”

He shook his head once. “I never vowed to wed you.”

It was true. Rosamunde cast her memory over their discussions and her innards went cold. He had never made such a pledge—she had simply assumed that such a man as he would not continue their torrid lovemaking without the formality of nuptial vows. Neither had she imagined that he would forgo the pleasure they granted each other.

Clearly, she had erred. It was as had oft been said of her—she might be able to see into the future, to see what others could not, but on occasion, she did not discern what was evident to all.

“Then I shall have my part of the legacy in Ravensmuir’s caverns,” she insisted. “I will withdraw a part of the store offered for auction, afore it is sold this day.”

Tynan shook his head. “You have no legacy here at Ravensmuir.” His gaze filled with chilly resolve. “You are not kin to the Lammergeier.”

Rosamunde gaped at him for a long moment in silence, so great was her fury. “You wretch! How dare you demand the surrender of all of value in my life, then cast me from your gates like so much rubbish?”

“You will fend well enough for yourself. We both know the truth of that.” He turned away, and Rosamunde resisted the urge to spit upon him for his faithlessness. “Make haste. Someone will arrive shortly to light the fires.”

“You might at least tell me why. What has changed?”

Tynan glanced over his shoulder. His gaze danced over her and Rosamunde took some satisfaction from the fact that he could not hide the admiration in his gaze. Tynan always regarded her as if she were a rare marvel, and she felt like one beneath his caress.

She had felt like one, at least, afore this morning.

“You can never be Lady of Ravensmuir, Rosamunde. It would not be fitting.” He turned and walked away from her then, and she wondered if he did not trust himself to keep from touching her.

“Whyever not?”

His quick glance was impatient. “Marriages are made for alliance, not for pleasure. Wedding you would not secure my borders or bind my neighbors to me.”

“And now that the relics will be sold that stain your repute by their very presence, I will not bring you wealth.” She spoke with heat, letting him see how his decision stung.

“Rosamunde...”

She backed away from him, for he knew too well how to make her forget her anger. “Do not try to soften your cruelty with sweet words!” She spoke then on impulse, naming her fear, hoping she was mistaken. “Doubtless your thinking would be different, were I young enough to offer you the prospect of a son.”

There was silence between them, silence that told Rosamunde she had guessed aright. She felt sickened then, but she would show him no weakness.

She had been cheated, by no fault of her own, cheated of love by a tale told for her own protection. That it was a false tale, one revealed too late for her to offer children to her lover, and withheld out of kindness by her beloved foster parents, made the revelation no more easily borne.

Tynan caught his breath and halted his pursuit of her. He stared at the floor, as if fighting to find the words, then met her gaze anew. His voice was taut, and though she saw that this choice cost him dearly, she would not make matters easier for him. “You should know that I do not mean only to train my nephew Malcolm: I will raise him as my son and make him heir of Ravensmuir.”

“So you have no need of a wife at all, let alone one of such sorry repute as me.”

Tynan threw out his hands. “Can you not see that it is your own history at root? You admitted Rhys FitzHenry to the auction for Madeline’s hand! What seized your wits?”

“I would wager that she will be happier wed to him than to one of those pathetic fools invited by Alexander.”

“My niece is to be wed to a man charged with treason! You must appreciate the damage to her reputation, and her very welfare may be endangered.” Tynan shoved a hand through his hair and paced the chamber. “I have considered this all the night long...”

“Not all the night long.”

He glared at her. “Most of the night, then. I cannot let this wedding proceed. Alexander must return the coin of this Rhys...”

“Rhys FitzHenry.” Rosamunde’s blood simmered. How dare Tynan not ask for her opinion of Rhys? How dare he not ask what she knew of this man, or even why she had admitted him after he had begged a word with her upon his arrival at Ravensmuir? She was the sole person in this hall who knew Rhys. How dare Tynan assume that Rosamunde would willingly endanger her own god-daughter, by tethering the girl to a rogue of no repute?

She stubbornly held her tongue, knowing that Tynan did not deserve to know that his conclusions were incorrect. Let him make a fool of himself!

“I shall insist that the wedding be halted. Madeline will wed, but not to a man wanted for treason. I owe more than this to my brother, Roland. I owe more to his children than to make such a mockery of their nuptials and futures.” Tynan shook his head. “I cannot imagine how you persuaded me to participate in such madness. No man of dignity would auction a niece!”

“Because the neighbors might not approve?”

He turned on her then, furious as he had not been yet. “Do not mock me, Rosamunde! I must live among these people and rely upon their alliances in times of woe.”

“You have no such obligation to remain. You only say as much because you love Ravensmuir more than any living soul!”

“I cannot merely sail away to a more friendly port. I cannot treat every challenge of life as a jest. I cannot make my own rules, discarding the law of the land when it does not suit my desires.”

“Is that how you believe I live?”

“Is it not evident that you do?”

“At least I am alive! At least I can yet take a risk, or a wager that might result in my favor. Do you claim Ravensmuir or does it claim you?”

“I will never leave Ravensmuir.”

“But you will cast away everything and everyone else, if necessary. Who is the fool in this, Tynan?”

He said nothing, which was answer enough.

Rosamunde advanced upon Tynan. “I thought you more than this, Tynan. I thought you a man who did not care for the whispering of his neighbors.” She glared at him. “I thought you were your father’s son.”

Their gazes locked, each knowing well enough that Tynan’s father had claimed an unconventional bride, for the sake of love alone.

Then Tynan sighed and looked away. He looked so discouraged that Rosamunde was tempted to reach for him, to lay a hand upon his shoulder.

“I am a man who learned the price of his father’s choices, and do not welcome their burden upon my own shoulders,” he said, sounding a thousand years old.

Rosamunde hardened her heart against him. Let Tynan bear his own burdens from this day forth. That, after all, was the choice he had made.

Some sorry soul knocked then upon the portal.

Chapter Five

Tynan gave Rosamunde a sharp look, but she held her ground.

“I am here, Laird of Ravensmuir, and I will remain here,” she said, scoffing at his evident disapproval. “You are less than I had imagined you to be, if you care so much for rumor in your own hall.”

“Rosamunde,” he growled, but she did not let him continue.

“You and your expectation that I should shirk from the truth of what I have done are welcome to find the way to hell.” She cast herself into the fine chair that he favored. She dangled her legs over one side of it, fairly daring Tynan to comment upon the visibility of her bare shins and feet. The chair was in a beam of sunlight and Rosamunde knew the light would make her hair look afire. “I intend to remain here, in full view of whosoever troubles his lord so early in the day. Let them guess what deeds have been done in this chamber and bed in hours past.”

“You cannot.”

“I will, unless you forcibly remove me.”

“It is sorely tempting,” Tynan said, sparing a significant glance to the window.

Rosamunde smiled, her heart as cold as ice. “Be assured, my lord, that dead courtesans arouse more gossip than live ones.”

There was a cup of wine left within reach. Rosamunde picked it up with a cavalier gesture, held Tynan’s furious gaze, and drank of it lustily. She licked her lips, opened the neckline of her robe so that the curve of her breast was visible, and fluttered her eyelashes at the very vexed man before her. “Do you not mean to answer the door, my lord?”

Tynan’s jaw set, and he raised a finger toward her. His eyes flashed and she was glad to see that some fire yet lurked in his veins. But it was not enough for her, not anymore. She wanted all of him, she wanted to be acknowledged openly as his mate, she wanted the security of a permanent abode.

Tynan had offered as much, and he knew full well what she had read between the lines of their agreement. He had offered her heart’s desire, then snatched it away for the sake of convention.

Rosamunde would have her vengeance, to be sure. She might not share blood with her foster father, Gawain, but she alone had claimed the legacy of the man who had been the greatest thief in Christendom. She alone had begged Gawain to teach her his cunning tricks, his means of deception, his art of thievery.

Tynan might believe that his legacy was secure, but Rosamunde knew that legacies were as oft stolen as inherited by law.

* * *

The prospect of throttling Rosamunde offered more pleasure to Tynan than many responsibilities he had faced of late.

The sole exception was the night they had just spent entangled together. He had known himself to be a knave of the worst order in deceiving her, but Rosamunde was a madness within his very veins. He could not sleep, even knowing that she was within the walls of Ravensmuir.

He dared not let her guess how close he had come to swearing off Ravensmuir simply to have her by his side. Had she not invited that traitor to the auction, he might have lost his wits utterly.

The solution was clear: Rosamunde had to leave. Tynan had to think clearly, for matters grew complicated. The Red Douglas family and the Black Douglas family grew ever more aggressive in their pursuit of power—and Ravensmuir was directly in the middle of their ancestral lands. He would have to choose sides soon, and he would probably have to secure that choice with a marriage.

It would best be his own.

Tynan did not have to like the truth of it. Even then, Ravensmuir would likely be assaulted by the side he had not chosen, but at least he would have allies to aid in its defense. He could not permit the destruction of his family abode—Rosamunde would never understand his commitment to what she oft called a pile of old stones, but Tynan could not deny it.

Nor could he deny his sense of responsibility to his forebears. It was not sweet to forgo the desires of his heart. There was a heavy stone in his chest that seemed to grow larger the more vehemently he pushed Rosamunde away from his side.

It would be easier for both of them if she left Ravensmuir and never returned.

The knock came again. Tynan swore, then shouted. “Enter!”

The portal opened slowly. Tynan crossed the floor and hauled open the door so abruptly that Alexander fairly tumbled into the chamber.

The young man’s gaze flew from Tynan to Rosamunde, who had indeed displayed herself like a courtesan, and he flushed scarlet. He stammered in the attempt to say whatsoever he had come to say, his gaze remaining fixed upon Tynan’s face as his own face grew more ruddy.

Curse Rosamunde!

“What is it? What ails you, Alexander?” Tynan forced himself to recall that Alexander had seen five-and-twenty summers. He seemed so much younger than he was only because Roland had indulged him overmuch.

But then, what man could guess that he would die young?

“It is James. He is here!”

Tynan did not recognize the name. “James? Who is James?”

“Madeline’s betrothed,” Rosamunde said tartly. “How like you to forget such a bond.”

Alexander glanced to his aunt and nodded. “James is returned from France and comes to claim Madeline’s hand. His father accompanies him, and there is much hustle to make arrangements for the steeds and squires, seeing as the stables are so full.”

“It seems matters resolve themselves well.” Tynan granted Rosamunde an arch glance, not hiding that he was pleased indeed with these tidings.

“Indeed, what need to worry what Madeline desires,” Rosamunde said bitterly, then strolled to the women’s chamber. The scent of her perfume lingered in his chamber, tempting Tynan and doubtless informing any who might enter of her presence the previous night. There was not a soul with perfume as exotic as Rosamunde.

“But what of the coin, Uncle Tynan?” Alexander demanded with some anxiety. “I shall have to return Rhys FitzHenry’s coin to him if he does not wed Madeline, and the castellan yet insists that Kinfairlie’s harvest will be poor.”

“You will have one less to feed in the hall next winter, if nothing else,” Tynan said. “And James’ family might be persuaded to pay a bride price. He has, after all, taken overlong to return to wed Madeline and some compense could well be expected for the insult.” He laid a hand upon Alexander’s shoulder. “I shall see what can be done.”

Of course, Tynan should have guessed that with Rosamunde involved, nothing would be simply resolved. She returned slowly, swinging her hips as she strolled down the corridor and he had a feeling that she brought unwelcome news.

“Madeline is gone,” she said with no small pleasure.

Tynan almost made an accusation he would have regretted, for Rosamunde had appointed herself to guard the maidenly virtues of her nieces the night before. Rosamunde’s sharp glance reminded him that he alone was responsible for her abandoning her vigil.

Alexander glanced between them. “But where could she have gone?”

“She might be in the hall, or the kitchen,” Tynan suggested.

“Madeline never would descend alone to a hall full of men,” Alexander said.

“Not while they were awake, at least,” Rosamunde said. “She might well have fled. She is a woman of uncommon confidence, after all, and she had cause to be displeased with both of you last evening.”

“Fled?” Alexander stepped back. “She has never traveled alone! She has no weapons. She could be in peril!”

“If she is gone, we will pursue her, of course,” Rosamunde said.

“Begin a search of the entire keep,” Tynan instructed his castellan, who arrived just then. “My niece Madeline is not in her bed.” The castellan nodded and darted to his task.

“You will not find her.” Rosamunde cast off her robe as she crossed the chamber. The silk chemise clung lovingly to her curves, though her manner was far from seductive. “Tell this James to be prepared to ride within moments. I shall lead the hunt.”

“You?” Tynan asked.

She granted him a contemptuous glance that he knew he deserved. “Of course. You could not be expected to leave Ravensmuir.”

“But what about me?” Alexander demanded. “I will go! It would be my fault if any harm came to her.”

“You may come if you desire. I will pursue Madeline either way.” Rosamunde sat on the far side of the pillared bed and donned chausses that had been made for her in the manner of men’s garb. Few men though had chausses wrought of such fine leather as these.

“Perhaps you should go,” Tynan said, his thoughts upon Rosamunde’s safety as well. “You began this trouble, and it makes sense to me that the two of you should see it resolved. I will ensure Kinfairlie’s security in your absence.”

Alexander straightened. “We shall need fast horses.”

“We will have six black destriers, the finest stallions from Ravensmuir’s stables,” Rosamunde interjected crisply. She laced a fur-lined black tabard over her chemise, its surface graced with golden embroidery. She had donned her black boots and hefted her fur-lined cloak over her arm.

Tynan regarded her in astonishment at this command, no less when she smiled sadly.

“That is the price of being rid of me forever, Tynan, and we know you desire no less,” she said. She brushed past him without another word, without a parting caress, without a backward glance.

The stone in his chest became so heavy that it fairly took him to his knees. Tynan understood then that Rosamunde would never return to Ravensmuir, that she would never grace his bed or laugh in his hall again. Though he had demanded as much of her, the prospect was more grim than ever he might have imagined. He supposed that he would have years to grow accustomed to her absence.

“Is something amiss, uncle?” Alexander asked.

Tynan gripped the younger man’s shoulder. “Prepare yourself to ride, Alexander, for I doubt that Rosamunde will delay her departure for any man.”

* * *

In the end, they were six, upon those stallions Rosamunde had demanded. Rosamunde led the company, and was joined by the sole remaining man of her crew, one Padraig who wore a golden earring and said little. Alexander rode with them, as did James. Vivienne demanded that she be permitted to ensure the welfare of her closest sister—though Tynan suspected the girl wished solely to participate in a quest reminiscent of an old tale.

There remained but one steed without a rider when Elizabeth insisted that she be allowed to be the sixth. Tynan was inclined to deny her, though he had always had a weakness for the girl’s charm. He argued that she was too young, at only twelve summers.

Elizabeth flushed crimson but lifted her chin and informed him that she was old enough to be wedded and bear babes of her own, a detail he would have preferred to have lived without but one whose truth could not be denied. She also declared that the spriggan accompanied them, dangling as it did in the horses’ tails, and that she was the sole one who could see the creature.

Even Tynan could not find an argument against that, though he bade Alexander take great care with his sisters.

In a trice, the party was gone, the steeds fairly flying through Ravensmuir’s gates, their ebony tails flowing like dark banners. Tynan watched until the dust of the road swallowed their silhouettes, but his beloved never so much as glanced back.

* * *

In the same moment that Ravensmuir was roused to seek Madeline, she lay on the moor far to the south of that keep. The mercenary atop her did not move.

Indeed, Kerr did not make a sound.

His was a curious manner of assault. Madeline opened her eyes cautiously, for still she was trapped beneath him, cold mud against her cheek and chest. She listened, but Kerr did not seem to breathe.

Something warm trickled onto her throat. Madeline touched it and found vivid red blood smeared across her flesh. She yelped and recoiled and Kerr shifted. She glanced over her shoulder in fear of his retaliation.

Kerr’s eyes were wide open. He stared into the distance unblinkingly. There was a knife lodged in his throat, a knife clearly responsible for the blood that flowed over her.

Kerr had not assaulted her, because he was dead.

There was a dead man atop her, and it was his warm blood that flowed over her own skin.

Madeline’s composure abandoned her utterly. A horrible choking sound came from her throat. She struggled beneath the weight of the corpse in a panic, wanting only to flee as far as possible. She began to weep when she could not dislodge Kerr’s body from atop her, though her frenzy seemed only to embed her more deeply in the mud.

“Do not scream,” Rhys commanded. His words were so stern and her astonishment at his presence so complete that Madeline froze, trembling. “We shall never find the horses if you do, my lady. They are sufficiently frightened already.”

Madeline gasped as Kerr was hauled from her back. Rhys removed the knife from the man’s throat and matter-of-factly slit Kerr’s throat more thoroughly. He kicked the corpse aside, wiped his blade and replaced it in its scabbard, then offered Madeline his gloved hand. All of this he achieved with a familiar competence that Madeline found both reassuring and somewhat troubling.

She swallowed her scream with an effort, though she could barely summon a word to her lips in her shock. “You, you...”

“I can throw a knife well enough, it appears.” Rhys spoke so calmly that he might have been admitting an affection for ale. He reached down and seized her hand when she did not immediately accept his aid. He pulled her to her feet with a sure gesture and held her hands fast within his own.

He was dressed as afore all in garb of darkest midnight and his manner was stern. The leather of his gloves was thick but had softened with use and taken the shape of his hand, a strong hand that she could feel gripping her own. Madeline found herself grateful for his steady support.

Rhys gave her a hard look. “Are you injured?”

Madeline’s mouth worked, and she realized that she was quivering to her very marrow. She shook her head when words failed her and Rhys appeared to be relieved. She fought to compose herself.

Surely the man deserved no less for aiding her in such a timely fashion?

Her gaze fell upon the dead man, and she shuddered again even as she looked away. “How oft have you slit a man’s throat?”

Rhys gave her a hard look. “A man must do what must be done. Would you have preferred that I had let him live?”

Madeline’s knees shook with such vigor at the very prospect that she feared they would not hold her weight.

“Bear up, my lady.” Rhys held her hand with a firmer grip, though he did not touch her otherwise. He offered her a cloth to wipe the blood from her throat.

“He meant to rape me.” Madeline knew it was an unnecessary comment but she could not keep the words from spilling forth. She felt her color deepen. “I should never have trusted him. You must think me a fool.” She should never had left Ravensmuir, much less with a man about whom she knew so little.

To her astonishment, Rhys simply held her hand more tightly, as if he understood his grip to be precisely what she needed. He was like a rock to which she clung as her terror subsided.

“I think you a woman of uncommon resource. It is a mark of your valor that he did not succeed so readily.” Rhys spoke with such resolve that she did not doubt he meant every word. “I applaud your quick thinking and your fortitude. Are you unscathed?”

“I am frightened, to be sure.” She took a deep breath and glanced over herself. Her gown was mired and ripped, and there were scratches aplenty upon her skin. She had torn three fingernails and was thoroughly adorned with mud. She realized with horror that her shredded kirtle hung open and her breasts were bared.

Madeline seized the torn fabric to clutch it closed and flushed crimson. Rhys, she noted, did not look below her face. His gallantry encouraged her to summon a tremulous smile. “But otherwise I am well enough, I suppose.”

“It is a rare woman who can stand upon her own feet after such an assault.” Rhys granted her a brief flicker of smile, the sight of which warmed Madeline’s heart. “In Wales, we have great regard for stalwart women. Have ever you heard of Gwenllian?”

Madeline shook her head, even while the rest of her trembled.

“She was the mother of Lord Rhys, the last king of Wales. He rose in rebellion against the Normans in 1136. Gwenllian was his mother, and so great was her valor that she raised her own army, and led it against the enemy in aid of her son. Even when she witnessed one of her sons killed and another taken prisoner, she fought on so valiantly that still that field of battle, in Cydweli in Dyfed, bears her name in honor.”

While he spoke, Madeline found herself drawing vigor from his words and his grip. “I did not know. I had never heard of a woman leading an army to war.”

“And now you have.” Rhys became solemn again. “I apologize for the tardiness of my aid. There was no assistance I could grant while you were in the gorse, for I was not close enough to have a clear sight of the villain. Your attempt to flee offered me the necessary opportunity.”

“Had I not been such a fool, I would not have had need of it.” She drew a shuddering breath.

“Do not judge yourself so harshly.” A smile touched Rhys’ lips. “I understand that the prospect of wedding me must have been daunting for you to have taken such a risk.”

Madeline flushed. Not only had he perceived her fears but he must have anticipated her flight. How else could he have followed her and Kerr?

“My father employed Kerr’s services for years,” she said, needing to explain herself. “I trusted him because of that, though he clearly had a darker scheme than I realized.”

“I trust that you have learned something about using more caution in your choice of companions.” Rather than lingering upon his lesson, Rhys turned as soon as Madeline nodded. He released her hand and Madeline felt bereft.

Then he whistled. His destrier appeared, apparently having been hidden in the gorse, and trotted toward its master. It was a fine dapple grey beast, its mane and tail as dark as charcoal. A shaggy hound trotted beside the steed, and proved to be a dog of formidable size. It surveyed at Madeline with shrewd eyes and its tail wagged as it leaned against Rhys.

“This is Gelert,” he said, and gestured the dog toward Madeline. She reached out a hand, liking the hound’s friendly manner. Its tousled fur looked like shaggy silver brows over its eyes, and those brows moved most expressively. It sniffed her hand, then sat beside her, leaning heavily against her leg. Madeline sank her fingers into the thick warmth of fur at the scruff of the dog’s neck and found its presence reassuring. Indeed, the heat of it against her and its appearance made her want to smile.

“And this is Gwynt Arian,” Rhys said as he seized the destrier’s reins. The beast tossed its head and flared its nostrils, as if in recognition of its name.

“Is that a Welsh name?”

Rhys nodded as he rubbed the beast’s nose. “It means ‘silver wind’.”

“It is a fine name for a steed so regal as he,” Madeline said, taking comfort in their mundane conversation. “But you travel with no squire?”

Rhys shook his head. “These two bear witness, but tell no tales.”

Madeline wondered who had betrayed him in the past, but Rhys clearly had no interest in sharing confidences.

“Fasten your cloak tightly about yourself,” he advised as he led his horse closer.

Madeline complied with his instruction, grateful to have no need to make decisions herself for the moment. Rhys lifted her into his saddle with a single smooth gesture. He murmured to the steed, then rummaged in his saddlebag. Gelert stood diligently beside the stirrup, as if guarding Madeline.

Rhys offered a leather flask to Madeline along with a sharp glance. “Sip of this.”

“What is it?”

“Eau-de-vie.” Again that teasing smile curved his lips for just a heartbeat. Madeline wished Rhys would smile more often, for he was less fearsome then. “It will persuade you that you have not joined the dead as yet. Drink.”

Madeline sipped cautiously. The flask’s contents burned her throat like fire and forged a course to her innards. Her eyes watered and she choked as if she would cough up her very liver.

When her vision cleared, Rhys nodded, amusement in his eyes. “Take another.”

Madeline did as she was bidden, though the second draught was scarcely easier to down than the first.

“Better?”

To her astonishment, Madeline did feel better. The liquid had awakened a heat in her flesh and driven the shivers away. She nodded, and Rhys lifted the flask from her hand. Their fingers brushed in the transaction, reminding Madeline of his possessive kisses and awakening another warmth within her.

“Two small draughts is a sufficient measure for a lady,” he said, then took a long draught himself. For the first time, Madeline wondered whether he had been troubled by Kerr’s assault.

Rhys seemed so unconcerned, as if he routinely aided women attacked upon the moors, as if he often killed mercenaries for the greater good. His desire for the eau-de-vie hinted that he might have shared at least a measure of her fear.

Madeline shook her head, certain she saw a vulnerability in this warrior that was not there. Undoubtedly, he felt a responsibility toward her.

He had bought her, after all.

Perhaps he was a man who protected all of his possessions with such vigor. Madeline did not know, but she was clever enough to admit herself glad in this moment of his sense of obligation.

Rhys winced at the liquor’s vigor but did not cough. He turned to scan the moors with narrowed eyes, then nodded at the distant silhouette of a palfrey. “Your steed?”

Madeline nodded. “Tarascon. Kerr cut her flank to make her run away from us. I do not know the depth of her injury.” Her fingers tightened on the pommel. “I hope she is not sorely wounded.”

“She runs yet, so it cannot be so dire a wound.” Rhys spoke such good sense that Madeline wished she had realized as much herself. She seemed fated to show herself poorly in this man’s presence.

Rhys took the reins and led the destrier toward the mare. He whistled softly. Tarascon turned to watch their progress, her ears twitching nervously.

“The blood will have frightened her,” Rhys said, the very tone of his voice reassuring. “Do you ride her often?”

“Almost daily.”

“Then she will have smelled your fear, as well, and been troubled by that.”

“I can call her. She always comes to me.” The palfrey took but one step closer when Madeline called, then retreated four paces, her tail swishing nervously.

“Does she then?” There was humor in Rhys’ tone.

Madeline sat straighter, wishing she could do something right in this man’s company. “Usually she does.”

“These are uncommon circumstances, my lady. Do not take her uncertainty to heart. Wait until we are closer and she can be certain that it is you.”

“She might flee afore then.” Madeline called again, then watched in horror as her horse danced in the opposite direction.

Rhys halted and still Tarascon fled another trio of steps. She was anxious as Madeline had never seen her, though she could not blame the mare for her fear of men.

“Look in the saddlebag,” Rhys said softly. “See if a pair of apples are yet there.”

Madeline was glad to comply and to be of aid. The apples were there, but Tarascon was not as readily tempted by the treat as she might have been just hours before.

* * *

The sun was approaching midheaven by the time they coaxed the palfrey to let them approach her. Madeline was impressed by the gentle persistence Rhys showed in pursuing the frightened steed. They had steadily drawn closer to Tarascon, Rhys’ murmur obviously calming the horse’s fears.

That Gelert had finally run behind the palfrey at Rhys’ signal and barked aggressively, urging her toward Rhys, also had not hurt.

Madeline held the palfrey’s reins once Rhys had captured her, spoke to the horse softly and stroked her nose. Meanwhile, Rhys examined the creature’s wound with careful fingers. There was kindness in this man, though much else that Madeline could not name. The horse fidgeted but Madeline whispered to her, trusting Rhys to give good counsel.

“Mercifully, it is not as brutal as it might have been. I believe that the damage will heal readily enough,” he said as he straightened. “I would have like to have a better ostler than myself look upon it to be sure.”

“We could return to Ravensmuir.”

Rhys granted Madeline a steady glance and she could not guess his thoughts. “I think it too far for your mare,” he said with care. “There is an abbey to the north of here that we could reach by mid-afternoon, if you are willing. They have granted me aid in the past, for my aunt is abbess there.”

Madeline’s heart quailed that they would have to ride together, for her mare was too injured to bear her weight. She could not imagine being pressed against any man’s heat on this day, much less Rhys who kindled that unfamiliar fire within her. Their gazes caught and held, an awareness crackling between them that frightened Madeline to her core.

Rhys turned away before she could protest and methodically tied Tarascon’s reins to the back of the saddle. He whispered to his steed then strode away, with nary a word of explanation. Gelert sat beside her, as bidden. Puzzled, Madeline watched Rhys disappear into the gorse.

Was he leaving her here?

Did he prepare for whatever reward he would demand of her? She knew he desired her, she had tasted as much in his kisses. In his absence, Madeline’s suspicions seemed to feed upon themselves and multiply. Though Rhys had been kind, Kerr had been kind until he thought she had no hope of summoning aid.

Had she leapt from the fat to the fire?

Had she only delayed her rape? What would compel a man of such dangerous repute as Rhys to treat her with honor, now that they were alone upon the moors?

This might well be her sole chance to escape! Madeline dug her heels into the destrier’s sides, urging it onward.

The beast did not so much as flinch, let alone move. It nibbled at a wildflower, supremely indifferent to Madeline’s attempt to flee. The dog spared her a glance, as if chiding her, then returned to its vigil.

Madeline panicked. Had Rhys himself not advised her to choose her companions with care? She whispered to the horse, commanded it, patted its flank, pulled the reins. She did everything she could think of doing to persuade it to take a step.

All to no avail. The feet of the beast might have taken root. She might have tried to encourage a stone to move with better results. She made to dismount and run, just as Rhys’ voice carried to her ears.

“Arian heeds none but me, my lady.” He was striding from the gorse toward her, leading Kerr’s destrier. Again, he seemed amused but unsurprised.

Madeline felt a twinge of irritation. Did nothing astonish the man? Was Rhys never taken unawares?

“Truly?” she replied as if she had not discovered the very same fact herself. “It is uncommon to find a steed so loyal.”

“Indeed it is. A man can count himself fortunate to have any soul serve him with such loyalty, be it man or beast.”

Madeline watched him, curious despite herself. He made yet another reference to betrayal. What had happened to Rhys? And what was at root of the king’s charge against him?

She did not imagine that Rhys would answer her questions. Indeed, he frowned in concentration as he removed Kerr’s saddlebag. He solemnly sifted through its contents and ultimately removed only the coins from the dead man’s purse. Rhys then flung the saddlebag and the rest of its contents across the moor.

Madeline regarded him with surprise.

“Any who find his corpse will think he was attacked by bandits,” Rhys said simply, then swung into the other steed’s saddle. He lifted the reins of his destrier from Madeline’s numb fingertips. “Shall we go to the ostler, then?”

Madeline only nodded, and Rhys studied her for a moment before he urged the horse to a walk. “You look to have need of a tale,” he said. “And I know the very one.”

Madeline thought she needed many things in this moment, the last of which would have been a tale, but it seemed rude to say as much. She let him lead the horse and resigned herself to listen.

She did not expect to be entertained, no less to be charmed, but she was quickly proven wrong.

* * *

Rhys cleared his throat. “There is a place in Wales known as Pen Dinas, a place where it is said by those who know such things that the fairies hold their high court. Pen Dinas is a high flat rock near a river and its summit is uncommonly level. The turf there is a rich green, beyond the hue of any other place, as if it has been blessed by the feet of many magical dancers.”

Madeline found the tightness easing in her shoulders. Rhys’ voice was easy to attend and indeed, the unfamiliar rhythm of his speech was beguiling. This reminded her of the tales her father would tell the family when she and her siblings had been very small, and it was reassuring for that.

“So it was that a boy came there to hide. It is said that his name was Elidorus, but that is no Welsh name. Let us call him Llewelyn ap Alan.”

Madeline laughed despite herself. His substitution was so different that it caught her by surprise, and it was such an uncommon name. “You cannot say that name a dozen times quickly!”

Rhys granted her a wry glance and did precisely that, making it sound like music as he did so. She wondered whether she imagined the mischievous twinkle in his eye, so abruptly did he sober and resume his tale.

“So it was that Llewelyn ap Alan decided to flee his tutor, for he did not like to learn his meter, and he liked less to be chided for his inattention.”

“His meter?”

“The meter of poetry. It is what a boy learns from a tutor, how the rhymes must be made and the repetitions be calculated.”

Madeline knew nothing of this, but she nodded as if she understood. She was loathe to interrupt Rhys’ tale, and he thought the matter of meter so obvious that she did not want him to think her simple.

“So Llewelyn ap Alan hid himself near this very place, Pen Dinas, so that none might find him. That very night, when the moon waxed round and bright, he heard music. As slovenly as Llewelyn ap Alan might have been, he was no fool. He knew to avoid the music of the fairies and never to join them in their circles, lest he be lost to the mortal world for a hundred years. He put his fingers in his ears and he stayed hidden until the morning came and the fairy music ceased.

“Yet in the early light of dawn, when he might have allowed himself to sleep, Llewelyn ap Alan was confronted by two small men. They invited him to their abode, to show him marvels, and after having their pledge that he would be allowed to leave at his very request, the curious boy accompanied them.

“They led him to a secret passage, one cleverly concealed behind a trio of stones, and into a kingdom hidden beneath the hill of Pen Dinas. Although it was cloudy there, for no sun shone under the hill, the land was beautiful and the people yet more so. Every one of them was blessed with hair as fair as his own was dark, every one of them seemed on the verge of laughter. They had wealth beyond measure—goblets of gold and gems upon every finger. Their horses were swift and lovely, their hounds were graceful. It was a veritable paradise.

“Llewelyn ap Alan was greeted by the king himself. The king explained the manners of his people, and bade Llewelyn ap Alan not to demand a pledge again. The fairies made few vows, far fewer than men, for they would keep each and every one of them to the letter. The king told Llewelyn ap Alan that he and his people despised deception and faithlessness beyond all.”

Madeline watched her companion, noting again a reference to betrayal. She was beginning to have a good measure of curiosity about this man, though she suspected it was a dangerous inquisitiveness.

“Llewelyn ap Alan professed this to be most admirable and was granted leave to play with the king’s son. He did not forget himself, as he had feared, and it was not overlong before he asked permission to leave. His guides showed him a way home and he quickly made his way to his mother’s abode, half-fearing that time would have slipped away.

“But there had been no deception. The fairies had kept their bargain with him and he had been gone but three days, just as he had expected. Some weeks later, he sought the secret portal and found it, much to the delight of the king’s son. So it was that Llewelyn ap Alan became accustomed to spending time in both worlds and enjoyed the merits of both.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder and Madeline did not trouble to hide how enchanted she was by his tale. She smiled, hoping to urge him to continue, and Rhys turned away so abruptly that she feared she had somehow insulted him.

But he merely continued on. “The secret began to itch Llewelyn ap Alan, as secrets are wont to do, and increasingly it saddened him that no one knew what he knew. He confided one day in his mother, who seemed as delighted with his adventure as he. For a while, this confidence sufficed and he told her each time he returned what new marvels he had seen.

“Now, the marvels of that kingdom were not finite, and it seemed that each time he visited, Llewelyn ap Alan saw something yet more wondrous. And in time, as his tales seemed to grow more fanciful, and as his recounting of the wealth in the kingdom of the fairies grew more magnificent, his mother became impatient. She began to think that he played a trick upon her, as young boys will do, and she demanded some evidence that his journeys occurred in truth.

“So it was that the next time Llewelyn ap Alan visited the kingdom, he stole the golden ball with which he and the king’s son played. He made for the portal, but was pursued with a hue and a cry. He reached the door, but it was closed fast against him...until he surrendered the ball to the very pair who had led him to this place. They frowned at him, and turned a deaf ear to his apologies.

“When Llewelyn ap Alan blinked, he found himself upon the bare turf of Pen Dinas. Alone. He never did find the entry to the fairy kingdom again, though it was said that he wandered long and far in search of it. And though he oft heard their music at a distance, on a night when the moon shone bright, he never could spy their dancing, nor could he approach their merrymaking.” Rhys paused, seemingly to draw attention to the end of his tale. “Llewelyn ap Alan had shown himself faithless and a poor guest, and in that, he lost what he should have valued in the first place.”

The moral was a potent one. Madeline wondered if Rhys had chosen this tale apurpose, but she had no time to ask him before he raised a finger to point to the horizon.

“There! See the curl of smoke from the abbey’s chimney? It is not far, my lady. You will be among women and behind high walls soon enough. I daresay they will have a hot potage over the fire, as well.”

Madeline looked, saw the plume of smoke, and was ashamed of her earlier suspicions of his motives. Rhys was going to take her to an abbey where she would be safe.

No, she had been safe ever since she left Ravensmuir, safe because Rhys had ridden close behind her and kept a vigilant eye upon her, despite her own mistake.

And she had been doubly safe since he had saved her from Kerr.

Madeline smiled at Rhys, smiled genuinely for the first time since they had met. “Thank you, Rhys. I have done little to deserve your aid and courtesy of this day, but I grant you my heartfelt thanks.”

Curiously, the man did not return her smile.

Indeed, he blinked, as if he had looked into the centre of the sun, then frowned. He turned away, his entire being apparently focused upon making a course to the abbey.

“We had best make haste,” he said gruffly. “A wound heals better when it is tended sooner.” He whistled to Gelert and the hound trotted at the quickened pace of the destrier. Rhys did not speak to Madeline again—indeed, his concentration was so complete that he might have been riding alone.

And Madeline was surprised by how much Rhys’ silence—and his indifference to her presence—troubled her.

Chapter Six

In fact, Rhys was far from indifferent to the presence of the lady close behind him.

Rhys was aware of Madeline’s beauty as he had never been aware of a woman before. It had been with considerable effort that he had kept himself from reassuring her with his touch. It had taken a fortitude he had not known he possessed to restrain himself from kissing her soundly in his relief that she was unscathed.

He had been afraid when Kerr took to the gorse. He had been terrified that the wily mercenary would rape Madeline before he could come to the lady’s aid. He had left too much distance between them in his determination to not be observed and he had been certain that his lady would pay the price of his miscalculation.

He had not overstated his relief that she had attempted to escape.

The eau-de-vie had not truly settled Rhys’ worries. Indeed, it curdled in his gut. A resounding kiss would have served him better, no less the lady’s hands curling in his hair. But Rhys had glimpsed Madeline’s terror and he did not want to redouble it.

The lady had endured sufficient insult and trial of late.

Rhys particularly respected that she blamed herself for making a foolish choice. It was a rare soul who admitted his or her own part in subsequent misfortunes. To be sure, it was partly Rhys’ fault as well. Fear of meeting him at the altar was behind Madeline’s flight and he blamed himself for not doing a better task of eliminating her uncertainties.

It was not the lady’s fault that she had been protected from knowledge of wickedness in the world, especially the kind of wickedness Kerr had shown. He could well understand why she would trust a man who had been in her father’s employ.

He resisted the urge to steal a glimpse of her, for fear that she would smile at him again and addle his wits completely. The lady had an admirable valor, to be sure. Most women would have wept by this time, but Madeline sat straight in the saddle.

Even disheveled, she possessed a beauty that could make a man forget himself. Her braid had become unfastened and her dark hair hung loose over her shoulders. There was a scratch upon her cheek and more upon her hands, none of which Rhys dared to offer to heal. He did not doubt that the smeared mud hid bruises upon her flesh. The lady was too soft, too temptingly sweet, and the mere glimpse he had had of the curve of her breast had nigh been enough to make him forget any chivalrous intent he possessed.

Yet he had not been so entangled in his lust that he had not seen the truth of it. Madeline had been so frightened that his merest touch might have made her bolt like her palfrey. He would not take advantage of her fear to sate his own desires.

That was not the way to earn her trust, to make a match that would endure.

It was most unlike Rhys to feel such a potent yearning for any woman, and he had never expected he would feel it for the woman he ultimately took to wife. Rhys was certain that his response was a result of little sleep, or perhaps of a fear that Caerwyn could have been lost to him. Both he and Madeline would be restored by the morrow.

For, by then, they would be wed in truth, the lady’s future would be secured, and Caerwyn would be his forevermore.

* * *

When they reached the walled community, the abbey gates were closed. Rhys seemed untroubled by this, and Madeline said nothing, guessing that he must prefer her silence. These were heavy wooden gates, boasting no expensive portcullis or ornamental details, their sole virtue being their size and weight. Madeline could see the cross on the roof of the chapel, smell a potage of vegetables, and discern little else.

Rhys dismounted, then seized the rope beside the gate and pulled it. A sonorous pealing echoed behind the walls, the sound prompting Madeline to smile. It was a merry sequence of notes, a glorious ringing that made her heart soar. The music was sufficient that she almost forgot what she had endured this day.

“How delightful!” she whispered. Tears clouded her vision, for she recalled all too keenly how music had bound her and James together. She remembered him bent over his lute, composing a ballad. She recalled the play of light on his fair hair, and grief caught her by the throat.

Surely he could not be dead?

Surely she would have known if the man she loved with all her heart and soul had died?

Yet if were James alive, surely he would have sent word to her in ten long months? Madeline brushed aside her tears, wishing she were bold enough to ask for more of the eau-de-vie.

Rhys was watching her, and his expression had become wary once again.

Madeline did not care what he thought of her in this moment. “Could you ring it once more?” she asked, her words uneven. “It is so joyous a sound, as if angels themselves announce our arrival.”

Rhys said nothing. He pulled the cord again, his expression impassive.

Madeline listened, eyes closed, hands clasped together as the healing balm of the pealing bells rolled over her. The sound was so beautiful that the ache of her loss diminished slightly. She felt the fullness of her lost love while the bells sounded and it shook her to realize how much her life had changed.

Only when the bells fell silent did Madeline become aware that Rhys had watched her, transfixed, all the while.

“It is a community of women,” he said roughly, pivoting to stare at the wooden gate. “Although there are several priests who live separately and offer the sacraments, as well as an excellent ostler.”

Madeline was surprised by his manner. Perhaps she had offended him, taking pleasure from something so inconsequential when he had granted her more considerable aid. She leaned forward and touched Rhys’ arm, knowing she owed him a heartfelt thanks. He jumped at her touch but did not look at her.

He was irked, then.

Before Madeline could try again to ease his mood with gratitude, a small portal in the gate was opened. She glimpsed a face peering through the grill. “Who comes to our gate?”

Gelert barked joyously and leapt at the gate, apparently recognizing the monk’s voice and anxious to make his acquaintance again.

“Brother Thomas, it is Rhys FitzHenry.” Rhys straightened and took a step closer to the gate that he might be seen. “I regret that I must beg your hospitality yet again.”

“Rhys! You old dog!” The portal was flung open with a creak of its ancient hinges. Thomas proved to be a burly monk whose girth was too great for his robe. The garment was tight around his ample belly and thus rode short in the front, revealing his hairy shins and sturdy sandals. “And you, Gelert!” He bent to pat the dog, which leapt with happiness and licked his ears. “I wager I can find a soup bone for you.”

“No wonder the beast loves you more than life itself,” Rhys grumbled amiably.

“You could feed the creature once in a while, and you might earn such affection for yourself,” Thomas retorted, and the two men grinned at each other.

The monk’s joy at seeing Rhys was unmistakable, for he caught the reluctant warrior in a tight hug of welcome. Madeline was surprised, both at the warmth of the monk’s greeting and the fact that Rhys endured it.

Finally, the monk stood back and gave Rhys a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “You old sinner. Are you in need of sanctuary again so soon? Is there no end to your wickedness?”

This charge was made without malice, as if the pair commonly jested about such things. It reminded Madeline of how her brothers teased each other, though she was fascinated that any soul would tease Rhys FitzHenry.

And curious as to what he would do about the matter.

The color rose on the back of Rhys’ neck, and his manner became even more stern than usual. “It is the lady in need of your aid on this day. I only accompany her.”

“A lady!” Thomas sobered and straightened, tugging futilely at the front of his robe as he turned to Madeline. “Good day, my lady, and welcome to our humble gates.” He bowed, the effort such that the bald top of his head framed by his tonsure turned crimson.

“This is Lady Madeline of Kinfairlie.” Rhys spoke with care and Madeline guessed that he meant to present a slightly altered version of their adventure. She held his gaze, willing him to understand that she would not deny his tale. “She was beset upon the road by bandits. Mercifully, I arrived in time to be of aid.”

“God in Heaven!” Thomas crossed himself. “What times we live in! How fortunate that you came upon her and recognized her plight.”

“Not so fortunate as that, old friend.” Rhys smiled slightly and Madeline felt suddenly warm beneath his gaze. “The lady and I are betrothed, and I thought I recognized her steed at a distance.”

“Merciful heavens! God is great indeed that he granted you such keen vision!” Thomas looked between the pair of them with astonishment. “But why did we not know of your betrothal sooner, Rhys? That you of all men should take a bride is a tale worth hearing, and you were here but a fortnight past.”

Madeline blinked. She had only heard of Ravensmuir’s auction a fortnight past. Rhys must have ridden from Wales for some other purpose—what might it have been? And why had he chosen to attend the auction, no less to buy her hand?

Rhys cleared his throat pointedly. “I did not share this news, for I thought you unconcerned with the ways of the mortal world.”

Thomas flushed and grinned. “That does not mean that we have no interest in gossip. Rhys FitzHenry to be wed!” He laughed and shook a finger at Madeline. “You must be an intrepid lady to take such a ruffian as this to your side!”

“Thomas...” Rhys growled, but the monk ignored him.

Thomas leaned closer to Madeline, his manner conspiratorial. “Or are you, Lady Madeline, that uncommon manner of woman who sees the gold that the careless eye will perceive as dross?” Thomas winked mischievously and Madeline fought a smile, even as she considered Rhys anew.

What did the monk mean?

“There is little of merit in this world that reveals all of its value to a cursory glance,” she said.

Thomas hooted with delight. “Indeed, indeed! I should have known that Rhys would be unafraid to wed a woman with her wits about her.”

“He told me a fine tale while we rode here, and I am much appreciative of his kindness.”

“A tale? Where did you find such a glib tongue, Rhys?” Thomas nudged Rhys, then said something that Madeline did not understand. He winked at her puzzled glance. “An old Welsh proverb, it was. ‘The best Welshman is the one away from home.’ That fits you well enough, does it not Rhys? It is not often that you loose a measure of your meager charm.”

Rhys glared at his friend and seemed at a loss for words.

Thomas leaned closer to Madeline, his manner that of a man practiced in selling goods to those who have no need or desire of them. “Truly, Lady Madeline, this one has tales of his own to tell, though he never does. Discretion is the second name of our Rhys...”

“As opposed to your own second name, which is garrulous,” Rhys muttered.

Madeline laughed, for their banter lightened her heart.

Thomas huffed, though his eyes yet sparkled. “Well, there is not a soul alive who will mistake me for a man struck to stone, as you are pretending to be this day.”

“Much less a man struck dumb,” Rhys retorted. “I thought you offered hospitality at these gates to those in need of it.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Thomas threw up his hands and laughed. “Forgive me! Come, Lady Madeline, come within the circle of our gates.” Thomas claimed the reins of Rhys’ destrier and spoke to it.

The creature immediately followed his bidding.

“How curious,” Madeline said. “I thought Arian followed only Rhys’ bidding.”

Rhys said nothing, though his lips seemed to tighten.

“Is that the tale you were told?” Thomas demanded with glee. “What nonsense!” He gave Rhys a playful shove, then strode onward.

“How delightful it is to know when a man’s word can be trusted,” Madeline said, her voice so low that only Rhys heard her.

To her satisfaction, he seemed to avoid her gaze and the back of his neck turned ruddy. “The fiends even attacked her palfrey,” he said to Thomas, indicating Tarascon’s wound.

“Ah! Such wickedness!” Thomas was immediately concerned with the horse, talking to her and stroking her back as he murmured.

“Thomas is the ostler I mentioned,” Rhys said to Madeline without glancing her way. “His talent is widely reputed.”

Thomas led the palfrey toward the stables, his focus on the steed so complete that he might have forgotten the rest of the party. Tarascon seemed to understand that she had encountered one who would care for her. Her ears flicked less vigorously as Thomas spoke to her, and one last ripple passed over her flesh as she settled.

His seemed so uncommon an ability in such a place that Madeline could not hold her tongue. Indeed, there was not another horse to be seen, or any sign of one, in the abbey’s courtyard. “But surely an abbey has little coin for the expense of horses?”

Rhys’ smile flashed, the sight making Madeline’s heart leap. “Our Thomas was a horse thief afore he took his vows.”

“And you knew him then?”

Rhys nodded, his attention upon the other man. “We wasted our youths together, it is true.”

Madeline was intrigued by the affection in his tone. She might have asked for more detail, but Rhys raised his voice. “There are more of us, Thomas, than simply one steed,” he called. “And I do not think that wound so grievous.”

Thomas jumped with guilt. “It is her fear which is the greater injury,” he agreed. He smiled reassuringly for Madeline. “In a week or so, my lady, she will be hale again.”

“I thank you for your assistance. She is a faithful steed and I was much distressed to see her injured, let alone so willfully.”

“You speak aright, my lady. It is a wicked man who can inflict a wound upon a horse.” Thomas called for a boy to aid him. That boy continued to stroke Tarascon as he led her toward the small empty stable.

The palfrey favored her leg, but her terror had been dismissed. Madeline realized that her own fears were similarly gone. She considered Rhys, as he watched the palfrey being led away, and admitted herself intrigued.

It might not be so foul a fate to wed so protective and competent a man as Rhys FitzHenry.

Or was that precisely what he wished her to believe?

* * *

Satisfied with the boy’s efforts, Thomas turned his gaze upon the rest of the party. He frowned at the other destrier. “But what of this other steed? What need have you of a second stallion, Rhys?” Thomas asked, his hand landing upon Kerr’s destrier. “I have never seen this beast before.”

Madeline said nothing, for she was uncertain what Rhys meant to do about the beast. He clearly had a scheme for he stood more stiffly, his manner more alert. Had Thomas noted the difference in Rhys’ posture?

Rhys shrugged, feigning indifference. “No need, to be sure.”

“You did not buy it?”

Rhys shook his head. “It must have belonged to one of the bandits. We found it wandering where the lady was assaulted.”

Madeline shivered. “That villain will have no need of it any longer.”

“And I would not leave the beast to wander the moor, lest it become fodder for wolves.”

Thomas nodded in understanding and ran his hands over the horse. “It is not a bad steed. Not poorly tended or fed.” He granted Rhys a shrewd look over the steed’s back. “A bit of a rich mount for a bandit, one would think. A destrier is a better mount for a warrior than a thief, given the thief’s need for speed.”

Madeline straightened, certain the truth would out, but Rhys did not so much blink. “He must have stolen it from another victim then.”

“Indeed.” Thomas watched Rhys, his eyes bright. “Do you mean to keep it?”

Rhys shook his head. “I owe you a boon, Thomas, for this visit and the last one. Sell it and put the coin in your community’s coffers.”

Madeline was astonished by his act of generosity. A destrier was worth a considerable measure of coin.

Thomas pursed his lips. “We could keep it for the abbess. She has a fondness for a good mount.”

“Sell it,” Rhys said, steel in his tone. “And the trap, as well.”

Thomas straightened. Consideration lurked in his own gaze. “There is a good market for horses in Newcastle,” he said with care, still stroking the beast, still watching Rhys. “And I must go to the moneylenders there at month-end for the abbess.”

Rhys spoke in the same deliberate manner. “I hear the market is better in Carlisle.”

“Oh no!” Madeline protested, wanting only to be of aid. Rhys was not from these parts, after all, and she knew he would want the abbey to fetch the best price for Kerr’s steed. They must make the most of his generous gift! “I know that destriers fetch a far better price in Newcastle than in Carlisle. The king himself sends men there to acquire steeds and the market is most competitive.”

Rhys appeared to be gritting his teeth. He granted Madeline a dark glance, then spoke with vigor. “Nonetheless, a beast of this size and hue will garner a better price in Carlisle.”

Madeline shook her head, certain of her facts. “No, Rhys. I beg your pardon but you are not from these parts. My father bought only palfreys and ponies in Carlisle, for he said the stallion stock was poor there.”

Rhys glared at her. “Perhaps your father erred, my lady.”

Madeline parted her lips to argue but Rhys held her gaze with such heat that she knew he warned her to be silent. She closed her mouth with annoyance and glared at him in her turn.

What ailed the man? Did he not want the most made of his gift?

“I know Carlisle to be a better market for this beast,” Rhys repeated firmly.

“Carlisle ’twill be, then,” Thomas said, looking between the pair of them with interest. “Your counsel is always good, Rhys, though Carlisle is less convenient.”

“I think it would be well worth the journey.” Rhys seemed to be fighting his exasperation with the pair of them.

What vexed him about Newcastle?

Then Madeline realized the truth. Newcastle was closer to Ravensmuir and Kinfairlie. Rhys did not want the horse recognized, for then retribution for Kerr’s death could fall upon this abbey. It was entirely possible that no one would believe the mercenary had been killed by thieves, equally possible that Kerr’s comrades might question that conclusion if his horse was spied.

If suspicion fell upon the abbey for having some involvement in the mercenary’s death—or worse, if Kerr’s fellow mercenaries demanded a vengeance of their own—that would be a poor reward to the abbey and its occupants for any favor they had shown to Rhys. His aunt was abbess, after all.

And she had nearly foiled his protective intent. Even now, Thomas was suspicious of the horse’s origin, suspicious as he might not have been if she had kept her counsel to herself.

Rhys must think her a witless fool, so thoroughly did she err in his presence!

Rhys frowned. “The trap, however, might sell for a better price in York.”

“A horse with trap always fetches a better price,” Thomas said, amusement in his tone.

Rhys bent toward the older man, his manner intent. “Perhaps even Lincoln or Winchester would be good.”

Thomas grinned. Mischief danced openly in his gaze now. “Why do you not save the horse, Rhys, and take it all the way to Wales to be sold? Surely the price will be better there?”

“Perhaps the gain would not be worth the risk.”

Thomas chuckled and clapped the other man on the shoulder. “I welcome your advice, Rhys. Fear not, old friend, all shall be done as you counsel. I shall ensure that this horse is not recognized.”

Madeline saw that Thomas had understood Rhys’ intent all along, and had only teased him.

“Can you tell me more of who might recognize it?”

“It is better that you know less.” Rhys spoke with such resolve that Thomas nodded.

Then the monk smiled. “Aye, you are protective of those you call your friends, of that no man can have a doubt. I hope you have espied this man’s true nature, Lady Madeline, and not been deceived by his poor manners.”

Madeline nodded. She had seen much of merit in her companion on this day.

Rhys folded his arms across his chest. “Perhaps the abbess might be summoned, that the lady could be aided as well.”

“My lady, are you injured?” Thomas demanded with horror.

“She is stalwart, but has had a shock,” Rhys said when Madeline might have demurred. “Summon the abbess if you will.” He held Madeline’s gaze with sudden determination. “I would ask another favor of the abbey, for I would have our nuptials celebrated here this very day.”

Madeline blinked. Rhys still intended to wed her?

On this day?

“Here?” Thomas echoed in astonishment. “But what of the lady’s family?”

“We cannot continue to Ravensmuir until the steed is healed.”

“But they could come here,” Madeline suggested. “Surely we could wait until they arrived from Ravensmuir?”

Rhys shook his head. “Surely, events of this day has shown that we dare wait no longer. We will be wed before nightfall, my lady, and send word to Ravensmuir in the morning, after our match is consummated.”

With that, Rhys pivoted and strode toward the stables, leaving Madeline fuming at his commanding tone. He might have asked her opinion on the matter, instead of ordering her to do his bidding like a trained hound! Her anger must have shown, for Thomas touched a fingertip to her arm.

“I would remind you, Lady Madeline, that it is ill-advised to murder a man within the walls of a community pledged to God’s work.”

“Then I shall have to wait until we depart,” Madeline said with sweet ferocity. “Doubtless the road is long and quiet to my lord husband’s home.”

Thomas laughed. “I have oft thought murder too fine a fate for some rogues, my lady. Let him live long, the better that you might to plague him with your wit.”

Madeline found herself smiling at the monk’s counsel.

“There,” Thomas said. “It is always a better omen if the bride is merry.”

That reminder sobered Madeline utterly. She would be wed. And Rhys had made it clear that their match would be consummated this night. Given her experience of this day, that prospect filled her with a goodly quantity of dread.

* * *

It had not, perhaps, been the best way for Rhys to declare his desire and intent to wed Madeline.

Rhys brushed down his steed, cursing the fact that he had no abilities to summon sweet words for this woman’s ears. Why could he not have been blessed with a silver tongue? Why was he so incapable of saying what nonsense a woman wished to hear? He could have eased Madeline’s fears, but no, he had redoubled them. It had been brilliantly done.

So engrossed was Rhys in his task and his recriminations, that he did not notice Thomas’ arrival until that man cleared his throat.

Rhys jumped and pivoted to find the other man leaning against the door of the stall. Gelert watched with interest, though the dog had already flattened himself a bed in the straw. The hound had become accustomed to this stable of late.

“Do you mean to change her thinking, then?” Thomas asked.

“I do not need your reminder that I know little of courting a noblewoman,” Rhys said and turned back to his task.

“Perhaps you need a reminder that she can spurn you until the vows are exchanged.” At Rhys’ glance of alarm, Thomas smiled. “She could take the veil here, and you know it well.”

The prospect sent a new thread of fear through Rhys. He had not considered that possibility. “My betrothed will never become a bride of Christ. It is not her nature.” Rhys was not as convinced as his words might have sounded. Indeed, the lady had already shown her desire to evade wedding him by fleeing Ravensmuir.

The abbey had to offer a more alluring option than Kerr had presented. A cold hand closed around Rhys’ heart and he brushed the horse down with renewed vigor.

Surely Madeline would not do as much?

But Rhys did not know and he dared not hope.

“Do not be so certain of your suit, old friend,” Thomas said, offering no reassurance at all. “Women are a fickle and unpredictable lot. The abbess would be delighted to claim another noblewoman’s soul for her community.” Thomas nodded, making the prospect sound dangerously plausible to Rhys. “It can never hurt to have more coin in the coffers and more influence at court.”

“Perhaps I should tell the abbess that the lady’s family has neither coin nor influence.” That was not strictly true, Rhys realized, for the Kinfairlie clan now had the coin he had paid for Madeline’s hand.

“Kinfairlie have no coin? Are you mad?” Thomas gave a low whistle. “They are kin with the lot at Ravensmuir, who are auctioning a considerable cache of religious relics this week, are they not?”

“Indeed they are,” Rhys agreed, seeing where this argument led.

Thomas amiably plucked the brush from Rhys’ hand. “Leave the beast some flesh, Rhys.” He shook the brush at Rhys. “Do you know what your aunt would do for a larger relic than the one currently in our chapel?”

Rhys stared at the stable floor grimly. “I dare not think about it.” His aunt had taken the veil when widowed for the third time. She had survived not only those three husbands, but the bearing of eleven children and a civil war. Miriam had always been kind to him, but she had never had to choose between her own objectives and his own.

Rhys did not doubt that she would gladly trade his desires, if she knew that Caerwyn was in the balance, for her own ambitions.

“I would suggest that you do think about the matter, and do so quickly, or your bride may be traded for a fingerbone!” Thomas chided, then flung out his hands. “Why did you even bring the woman here? You should have ridden onward!”

But Madeline had been frightened and her palfrey had been wounded. Rhys had known that she had needed solace and the chance to recover from her ordeal -- and he had thought no further than that.

It was unlike him to underestimate a threat, like the one the sanctuary of an abbey offered to a woman who did not desire to wed. Rhys exhaled and paced the length of the stable, admitting only to himself how Madeline’s needs have overwhelmed all other details in his thoughts.

In truth, she had not been the sole one in need of a moment to recover after Kerr’s assault.

“Your aunt will twist the lady to her will,” Thomas insisted. “If you truly wish to wed her, then no good can come of your arrival here.”

Rhys knew that well enough. “Perhaps I too should greet the abbess,” he said, his tone revealing his lack of enthusiasm.

“If she lets you into her chambers.”

Rhys looked up, angered at the prospect. “She will not stop me, not this day.”

“There is the spirit you need!” Thomas grinned and brushed off Rhys’ jerkin, like a squire preparing his knight for a battle. Rhys could not help but note that Thomas showed an over-abundance of cheer, as if he anticipated that Rhys might lose this particular battle. “You should have a squire, Rhys, to ensure that you do not look like a ruffian,” he chided.

“Squires talk overmuch. I would have my secrets be my own.”

“Perhaps so, but I would advise you not to keep any desire you have for this bride a secret any longer. Women like sweet confessions, Rhys. One such might serve you well in this case.”

Rhys frowned and glanced away from his friend. “And I am to take counsel in courting a woman from a monk.”

Thomas laughed. “I was not tonsured from the cradle. You, of all men, should know as much.”

“Aye, you took your vows to avoid the claims of all your bastard children.”

Thomas laughed again, though Rhys’ comment was not that far from the truth. “You can show a certain rough charm when you so desire, Rhys,” the monk insisted. “If wedding this woman is of import to you, then you might summon a bit of that charm. You will need the lady’s endorsement if you mean to thwart the ambitions of our abbess.”

That, Rhys knew, was true enough.

“Tell her a tale of love redeemed, or one thwarted and reclaimed. You are better with a tale than a compliment.”

That was also true.

But Rhys knew that there was no love betwixt himself and Madeline. He had bought her hand, no more than that, and if he confessed to having tender feelings for her, the lady would not believe him. Madeline was no fool.

Regrettably, his aunt Miriam’s eye was cursedly sharp, and she too would note the lack of affection between them. He scowled at the floor, uncertain what he could say in his own defense.

“Tell her of Caerwyn,” Thomas suggested, ever helpful. “Women like to know a man’s intent for them.”

Caerwyn! If Miriam guessed the truth of it, if Madeline truly was his cousin’s daughter and thus the potential heir of Caerwyn in her own right, there was far more than a fingerbone at stake.

Miriam could demand Caerwyn as a donation, and that castle would be lost to Rhys forevermore. Rhys’ blood ran cold. He cursed, shoved a hand through his hair, and strode to the abbess’ chamber with new purpose.

For Caerwyn, he would utter whatever words were necessary to make Madeline his bride. He would find them, somehow.

He dared do no less.

Chapter Seven

The silence of the abbey closed around Madeline like a shroud.

Everything within the abbey was wrought in hues of white: the walls were white-washed and the nuns wore identical garb of undyed linen. Veils covered their hair and wimples covered their throats, only their hands and faces—which were all pale—were revealed even to each other. A faint melodic chant from the chapel carried through the tranquil corridors, the sound muted and bleak instead of celebratory. Even the sunlight that slanted through the high windows seemed as pale as milk.

The bells at the gate would seem to be out of character. Madeline wondered whether Thomas was responsible for their very presence.

As she followed a nun to a small chamber where she could refresh herself, Madeline had the eerie sense that she walked among the dead. And truly, these women were dead to their families and to the mortal world beyond these walls. They had entered divine service to become closer to God and were thus cloistered from the many distractions of the mortal world.

When first Madeline had left the courtyard, the tranquility of this place had soothed her annoyance with Rhys. But by the time she had washed the filth from her skin and trimmed her nails, combed and braided her hair, the silence had begun to annoy her.

Madeline was accustomed to the barely contained chaos of Kinfairlie and the volume of seven boisterous siblings. Silence was not to be trusted, for it made her suspect that someone plotted a jest against her. So it had always been at Kinfairlie: silence warned a soul to be wary.

At any moment, Malcolm might leap from some unanticipated hiding place to make her yelp in surprise. Or Ross would sneak up behind her while she donned this kirtle and drop some slithering creature down her chemise. Madeline pulled the undyed kirtle hastily over her head then glanced over her shoulder, but Ross was not there.

The meek nun who was evidently her custodian stared into space, with no curiosity about Madeline or her manner at all. She might have been a corpse, stood at the portal. Madeline turned her back upon the girl.

Alexander had always planned more elaborate jests, like the time he had fanned smoke into the chamber that his sisters shared, then shouted “FIRE!”. Madeline smiled at the sight they must have made, all five of them screaming as they fled into the bailey in no more than their chemises. The entire prank had delighted the squires and stableboys of Kinfairlie, while Alexander had been too convulsed with laughter to fully appreciate what he had wrought.

At least until their father had heard tell of his deeds. Alexander had sat gingerly for a week.

Madeline laced the sides of the plain kirtle, her smile fading. Those had been happy days indeed, but now her parents were dead. Malcolm and Ross had been dispatched to train as knights, her beloved James was lost, and Alexander had played the cruelest jest upon her of all.

Madeline was alone as she had never been alone in all her days and nights, and she did not care a whit for it.

The wooden comb clattered as Madeline put it down. No, Madeline decided, she did not merely distrust silence. She loathed it. It was unnatural for people to live in such quietude. She decided not to don the wimple and veil left for her, for she was not a member of this community. As a maiden, she had the right to wear her hair uncovered.

Madeline recalled suddenly the weight upon her neck and realized that she was not utterly alone. She still had the token left to her by her mother, the Tear of the Virgin.

She lifted the velvet sack out of the front of her chemise. She picked the bit of dried mud from it, and unknotted the cord with some trepidation. She did not know what to expect of it, not after it had been so dark the night before.

But its prediction was less clear to her now than it had been last evening. Had the Tear of the Virgin anticipated her flight, and predicted only the woe she had endured at Kerr’s hand? Or had its warning been a prediction for her match with Rhys?

There was but one way to know. Madeline let the stone slip into her palm, though she quickly closed her fingers over it. She kissed her clenched fist, whispered a prayer, then opened her hand.

At first she thought the gem was as dark as before, but then she spied a gleam of light deep within it. Madeline lifted her hand so that she could see the stone better. A small golden star seemed trapped within the stone, much as she was trapped by the few choices before her. She turned the gem this way and that: though the star remained, it neither grew larger nor smaller.

The fact that it was present meant that there was hope.

Or at least, that there was more hope for Madeline than there had been last evening.

She put the gem back into the velvet sack with a frown and supposed she would have to content herself with that.

* * *

The young nun who accompanied Madeline to the abbess seemed to be at peace with her choice to enter the cloister. Indeed, she exuded a tranquility that Madeline knew she would never feel herself. The nun halted at the portal to the chamber occupied by the abbess, then stood silently, waiting for the abbess to note their presence.

The abbess was an older woman, in the midst of writing. The only sound was the scratch of her nib against the vellum. She seemed blissfully unaware of the two women awaiting her attention.

Madeline looked between the pair of them and realized that the young nun would wait quite contentedly forever, if it took that long for the abbess to become aware of them. Madeline was not so submissive as her companion. She cleared her throat, and stepped forward when the abbess glanced up in surprise.

She felt the shock of the girl beside her and did not care.

“Good day. I greet you and thank you for your hospitality this day,” she said, advancing into the chamber. “I am Madeline Lammergeier of Kinfairlie. Doubtless you have already heard of my arrival here.”

The abbess’ smile was not immediate. In fact, the older woman seemed to take the measure of Madeline at her leisure before she spoke.

“I have indeed heard the tale,” she said finally, then rose to her feet with the grace of a duchess. She flicked the barest glance at the young nun behind Madeline. “That will suffice, Sister Theresa. I bid return to your prayers.”

There was a whisper of leather slippers against the stone floor as the young nun slipped away, then that cursed silence assailed Madeline’s ears once more.

The abbess surveyed Madeline, her gaze so shrewd that Madeline doubted there was much news this woman did not hear. The slender angles of her figure were evident despite the full cut of her gown and the wimple and veil that framed her face. Her eyes were a faded blue, though her avid gaze undoubtedly missed no detail, however trivial.

Madeline would not like to be a foe of this woman.

“You are far from Kinfairlie, child,” the abbess said, crossing the room with the leisure of a cat stalking its prey. She halted before Madeline, that incisive gaze all the more forceful at such close proximity.

“Indeed I am.” Madeline fought the urge to blink.

She started when the abbess abruptly flicked the cloth of her kirtle away from her throat. “Did Rhys FitzHenry do this to you?” The abbess flicked a finger across Madeline’s throat, the tingle telling her that there was a bruise upon her flesh.

“Quite the opposite. I was attacked by a bandit.” Madeline was certain that it was better to say less to this woman than more. “I survived the villain’s assault because Rhys FitzHenry killed him.”

The abbess was clearly unsurprised by this detail, though she arched a silver brow. “And the price of Rhys’ invention is marriage?”

Madeline felt herself flush. “We were betrothed afore.”

“How curious that I did not know of it.”

“We were betrothed but yesterday.”

A faint smile of triumph touched the abbess’ lips before she pivoted to stroll across the chamber. “Yet this very morn, you were far from Kinfairlie and either alone or so poorly defended that a bandit could threaten your life.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes glinting. “The Rhys I know takes better care of what he holds to be of value.”

Madeline’s face heated yet more, for she was a poor liar. “The details of my woes are surely not of import.”

The abbess considered her for a moment, then gestured that Madeline should take a seat. She trailed her fingertips across the top of the table, then spoke so idly that Madeline knew her question would be of import. “Do you know Rhys well?”

“Not at all.” Madeline smiled politely. “Though that is hardly uncommon for a betrothed maiden.”

The abbess inclined her head in agreement. “Of course not. Though I do know Rhys rather well, as he is my nephew. It is curious to me that Rhys would choose to wed with such... impatience. He is, in my experience, a man who considers his every deed with great care.”

“Nonetheless, I tell no falsehood about our agreement.”

The abbess studied Madeline, who resolutely said no more. “There were rumors of a strange auction at Ravensmuir yesterday. Are those at Ravensmuir not the kin of your family at Kinfairlie?”

“My uncle is the Laird of Ravensmuir.”

The abbess nodded. “The same laird who permitted the auction of one of his nieces as a bride, the same laird whose niece sits afore me, telling me that she does not know the man she is abruptly pledged to wed.”

Madeline said nothing, for she could not guess the older woman’s intent. She knew solely that she did not trust her.

The abbess seemed to find her response—or lack of it—amusing. “You may keep your secrets, child, but I shall make you a wager.” She braced her hands on the table, her eyes bright. “You surely know that you have come to the one place that might offer you sanctuary. You cannot wish to wed a stranger, no less one charged with treason by the king himself.”

The abbess’ eyes shone as she leaned closer. “Pledge to join this abbey and you need not exchange vows with Rhys FitzHenry. Become a bride of Christ, Madeline, instead of the wife of a warrior, and save your immortal soul.”

Madeline was not tempted by the prospect of coming beneath this woman’s authority, but she could not quickly think of a way to diplomatically decline. She marveled instead that she was more afraid of this abbess than she was of Rhys.

“Aunt Miriam, is it not impolite for you to try to dissuade my betrothed from wedding me?”

Madeline spun to find Rhys leaning against the portal. Her heart leapt with a strange joy at the very sight of him. His eyes were darker than they had been and his mood seemed foul. He looked larger in this sanctuary, darker and more dangerous amidst the white walls and undyed cloth. His hands were propped upon his hips, his demeanor formidable, and Madeline had a sudden urge to taste his demanding kiss once more.

It was more than the hue of his garb, or even his gender, that made him look out of place. Rhys’ very presence shattered the tranquility here. He brought a whiff of the outside world, of war and death and passion, that enlivened the chamber more than the serene music and rays of sunlight could.

Madeline knew that this was why his presence was so very welcome. She thought of his demand for sons and knew that he would not be sated with one or two. Rhys’ home would be filled with the noise to which she was accustomed.

Madeline knew in that moment what her choice would be. She could not imagine a worse fate than being sealed within these walls for all of her remaining days and nights. She would rather live each moment to the fullest, even if that meant accepting uncertainty, than pass her days in such tranquil seclusion.

If she put her hand in that of Rhys FitzHenry, Madeline wagered that she would have adventure and passion aplenty, as well as the protection of a formidable man. Perhaps Vivienne’s notion had not been such folly; perhaps Madeline might clear the stain from her husband’s name. From what she had seen of Rhys, she could not imagine that he had betrayed his liege lord, for faithlessness seemed a crime beyond all to him.

The abbess smiled briefly. “You should not feel so welcome as to come to my chamber, nephew. I have indulged you overmuch in this place.”

“I would have come in this moment with your indulgence or nay. My betrothed and her welfare is of greater import to me than any condemnation you might utter.” Rhys smiled at Madeline, the very sight making her pulse race. “How do you fare, my lady fair? Have you sufficiently recovered from events of this morn?”

He was suddenly so courteous and charismatic that Madeline did not know what to say.

“Are you well?” she whispered.

Rhys chuckled, claimed her hand and laid a kiss upon her knuckles. “Better now that I see you again.”

Who was this man? Had Rhys been struck in the head? He watched her over her knuckles, and she frowned at him. Why did he not simply tell her what was amiss?

He tightened his grip upon her fingers and his lips tightened with what might have been displeasure. “Is it so difficult to believe that I have yearned for the sight of your smile in your absence?”

Madeline parted her lips to confess that it was, then realized that the abbess watched their exchange with keen interest. She put her hand over Rhys’ and smiled. “I am but surprised that you make such sweet confessions in the presence of another.”

Rhys straightened and pulled Madeline closer to him. She fairly stood within the circle of his arms, though he continued to merely hold her hands. “It is charming that you are so shy, though our affection cannot always remain a private matter between us.” Rhys caressed her hand with his fingertips. “Once we are wed, all will expect to witness our joy in each other’s company.”

He bent and inexplicably brushed his lips across her brow. Madeline did not know what to say or do, she was so astonished by his courtly manner.

The abbess spoke firmly to Madeline, though her gaze did not waver from Rhys. “Do not let Rhys force you into a match you do not desire, child. You have fled him once and come to a haven. I do not deny that he is a forceful man and I do not deny that men have their allure.”

The abbess looked then at Madeline. “But earthly temptation and its satisfactions are fleeting, and I can be as vigilant in defending those beneath my care as any man. Choose the veil and I will defend you even from my own nephew.”

“And all this you would do for the reward of the smallest relic from Ravensmuir’s hoard,” Rhys added quietly. His eyes were narrowed, his usual skeptical manner restored, though still he did not release Madeline’s hand.

The abbess’ eyes flashed. “Do not place a price upon good will!”

“Not even when it has one?”

The abbess’ nostrils flared and Madeline spoke with care. “You would not be the first to offer some favor in exchange for a relic from Ravensmuir’s hoard. Perhaps you should know that access to its treasures is not mine to grant.”

The abbess scoffed. “Surely you could persuade your uncle to make a donation for the good of his immortal soul?”

“And the sustenance of you in this abbey in this life,” Rhys amended wryly.

“Whatsoever my uncle does with his inheritance is his choice, not mine.”

“Well spoken, my lady.”

The abbess flushed as she lost her temper. “You are impertinent, Rhys, as always you have been! I bid you begone from this abbey!”

“I will begone on the morrow,” he said calmly. “After my bride and I exchange our vows and consummate our match.”

“Not within the walls of this abbey!”

“You have a priest and a chapel, which suits me well.”

The abbess shook a finger at her nephew. “You are a rogue and a man who finds trouble whether he seeks it or nay. You will lead this woman to woe, I know the truth of it.”

Rhys shook his head, untroubled by his aunt’s condemnation. “And you forget, Aunt, that I know you save your harshest words for those who defy your will.” He granted Madeline a piercing glance. “Prepare yourself for an onslaught of cruel words, my lady, afore you decline her offer.”

“No woman of sense would deny me!” The abbess flung out her hand. “What have you to offer a bride, Rhys? A life at the side of a man with no abode, a man hunted by the king himself?”

“Caerwyn,” Rhys said softly, his grip on Madeline’s hand tightening anew. He uttered the word with all the reverence of a benediction. “My bride will be the Lady of Caerwyn, as I am its lord.”

“Caerwyn!” the abbess retorted. “You may dream all you choose, but you do not hold that fortress as your own!”

Rhys might have been wrought of stone. He spoke with quiet vigor, though his eyes snapped with fire. “Aye, I do. And thus I have need of a bride, and thus I have chosen one.”

“You do not have to accept this,” the abbess said angrily to Madeline. “You do not have to believe this fanciful tale. Choose, child! Choose sin or the veil.”

But Rhys’ words gave Madeline an inkling of how he could have been named a traitor by England’s land-hungry king. “Is this holding yours in truth?” she asked.

Rhys nodded. “By Welsh law and custom, it comes fully to my hands upon our nuptials.”

The abbess frowned, her manner becoming intent. “But...”

Madeline interrupted her firmly, not trusting whatsoever the older woman might say. She understood the choice before her, and understood that it truly was not a choice. It was not within her to retire from the mortal world and become a bride of Christ. She could not return to Kinfairlie, given that she had been alone with Kerr and Rhys this day. Rumor would destroy her reputation. And she could not wed the man she had chosen herself.

Rhys had paid the price for her hand and proven his intent to defend her. He had a home and a title. She would judge him by his deeds, not his shadowed repute.

“I will make an agreement with you, Rhys.”

He inclined his head to hers. “Name it.”

“You say you have need only of sons.” Madeline was well aware of the abbess’ gaze flicking between them. “There must be more between us than that. I offer you my loyalty in exchange for your honesty. Whatsoever occurs, Rhys, I will never betray your trust. I ask only that you keep no secrets from me.”

“And sons?”

Madeline nodded, her mouth dry. “As many as God has the grace to grant to us.”

Rhys’ smile flashed with such sudden brilliance that Madeline blinked. “There is a wager no man could refuse.” Before she could speak, he cupped the back of her head in his hand and bent to kiss her so thoroughly that she was left dizzy.

His kiss teased and tempted, it cajoled her to join him. Madeline closed her eyes and surrendered to his touch, wondering whether his passion was wrought of relief or a desire to reassure her about their wedding night.

In truth, she did not care.

When he finally lifted his head, the abbess made a sound of disgust. Madeline could not look away from Rhys, though, nor could she seem to draw a full breath. His eyes glimmered with satisfaction and humor, and that smile lifted the corner of his firm lips.

“Call your priest, Aunt,” Rhys said with purpose.

“This will not be done in my abbey!”

“Aye, it will.” Rhys granted the abbess a grim glance. “There will be no questions, Aunt, and no suspicions. Our marriage with be consummated this very night, with your blessing, and you will witness the mark upon the linens.”

He was so determined that Madeline wondered. Why was it of such import to Rhys that their match have no chance of being annulled?

* * *

Something had changed, Miriam knew it well. She had seen enough of the world before retiring to this convent to know that men like her nephew did not suddenly rechart their course. A mere fortnight past, Rhys had had no intent of wedding. It made no sense that he now professed such a vigorous desire for this bride.

Even if he had bought her hand at that auction, Miriam could not understand why he had even offered a bid. To be sure, Madeline was a beauty, but Rhys was not the manner of man swayed by a pretty smile -- and he had not known the woman long enough to be certain of her character.

And Caerwyn! If Rhys had secured his claim to Caerwyn a fortnight past, he would have crowed his triumph from the rooftops. She knew how much he desired that holding, knew how often his attempt to secure it had been foiled.

What could have changed in his days here, near Scotland’s borders? What had he sought here?

And what had he found?

The puzzle missed a piece. Miriam liked to understand how matters fit together, why people made the choices that they did. She told herself that she had need of this knowledge to better guide her charges, but the truth was that the only element of the mortal world that she missed was gossip.

She watched the sun set, tapping her fingertips upon the window sill. The wedding ceremony had been unremarkable, as barren an exchange of pledges as she could have offered to this pair. It had dissuaded neither of them from their course, but then, Miriam had not expected it to do so.

They were stubborn, both of them. She shook her head, recalling this Madeline’s outspoken manner. She would have made a poor nun, at any rate. Perhaps she and Rhys deserved each other.

Had Rhys fallen in love, as abruptly as some fool in a troubador’s tale? Knowing him as the stern warrior he was, Miriam could not imagine as much.

She drummed her fingers again, knowing she missed some detail that might grant her a clue. Thomas undoubtedly knew more than he had confessed to her, but that wily monk was cursedly difficult to interrogate. He would tease her with his more fulsome knowledge but surrender no crumb of information in the end.

Miriam’s fingers halted suddenly. Why had Rhys been here a fortnight past? She had offered him sanctuary in the hope of gaining news, but he had had a mission of some kind, and he had been characteristically close with the details.

He and Thomas were of a kind, that was for certain.

But Miriam’s sister would either know or she could be prompted unearth the truth. They did not have a strong bond beyond blood, Rhys’ mother and Miriam, for there were too many years between them, but they shared a taste for knowing other people’s concerns. Adele would pry the truth from Rhys, one way or the other, if she did not know it already.

Miriam smiled, anticipating that her sister probably did not know that her son was a wedded man—how could she?—and that Miriam could be the one to offer this delicious tidbit of news to her sibling. It could not hurt to put Adele in her debt in terms of information shared.

Miriam chose a relatively unused sheet of vellum, dipped her quill and began to write a missive to her sister. A runner could leave with the dawn and soon, soon she would know the truth.

* * *

Whatever store of charm Rhys might have possessed had obviously been exhausted during that interview in his aunt’s presence. The exchange of their nuptial vows had been cursory, at best, the priest distracted, and Rhys feared that Madeline might be sorely disappointed in the ritual they had been granted.

Afterward, Rhys stood in the chamber he and Madeline had been allotted, astounded that she truly had pledged to be his wife, and was completely uncertain how to proceed.

He knew what had to happen, of course, and he knew how to do the deed itself, but he had never met a virgin abed. To be sure, he had never coupled with a woman when there was so much at stake.

Madeline could still spurn him. She could refuse his affections or dislike his touch. She could be fearful or cold. She could find him rough and unsavory, ill-mannered or coarse. This amorous encounter could proceed very badly.

That Rhys was so anxious that all go well did little to ease his trepidation. How much did Madeline know of such matters? What had she been told? He watched Madeline light the candles and found her composed manner difficult to interpret. He thought that she carried the flame from candle to the next with unnecessary care, and wondered whether she too was uncertain.

She lit every candle in the chamber, then extinguished the piece of kindling she had used to light them with the same thoroughness. She blew out the flame, dipped the kindling in a pail of water, then plunged it into sand. She looked about the chamber, as if seeking some other duty to perform, but it was sparsely furnished.

Madeline turned to face Rhys only then, only when she had no choice. She clasped her hands together before herself, but not so quickly that Rhys did not see them tremble. She seemed to take a deep breath before she offered him a thin smile.

And then Rhys knew what he must do.

He a deliberate glance over the contents of the white-washed chamber, hoping his manner was that of a man utterly at ease. There was but a narrow pallet on the floor, the candles and a wooden carving of Christ in agony hanging upon the wall. The artist had shown a particular interest in the more grisly details, and Rhys did not doubt that his aunt had deliberately chosen this room for them with the crucifix in mind.

He would not be deterred by so obvious a ploy.

He shook his head, as if bemused. “I never imagined that I would be wed in an abbey.”

Madeline laughed, her merriment of short duration. “Nor I,” she said, her eyes widening as she stared at him. She swallowed visibly and began to twist the plain silver ring he had so recently moved from his finger to her own. It was as if its newfound weight plagued her, as if its burden upon her finger only now reminded her of what she had sworn to do.

Rhys felt protective of his new wife then, and doubly determined to ensure that this night was one of pleasure for her. He crossed the chamber and stood before the crucifix. “Truth be told, I would feel less like a man sinning in church if we had no audience.” He glanced at Madeline for approval. “It but hangs on a nail, my lady, and can be laid upon the sill for a while, if you share my thought.”

Madeline nodded hastily. “I would prefer that.” She crossed herself as Rhys lifted the sculpture from the wall and seemed to heave a sigh of relief when it was laid aside. “Rhys, I know that you have the right to do whatsoever you will this night, but...”

He crossed the floor, watching how her breath hastened as he drew near, and laid a finger across her lips to silence her. “My right is of less import on this night than my duty.”

She regarded him quizzically. “I do not understand.”

“A man has many duties to his bride, the most important of which is not writ in the law of any land.”

“What duty is this?”

Rhys lifted the end of her braid in his hand and concentrated fully upon loosening the knot in the tie that held it bound. “I owe you pleasure abed on this night of nights. We will have no other nuptial night together, so memories must be wrought of this one.” He met her gaze. “I would have them be fond memories.”

“As would I.”

He worked his fingers through the dark silk of her hair, delighted that it curled around his fingers like the tendrils of a possessive vine. He spread it across her shoulders with care and she did not seem to breathe. He kept his voice low and even, for he knew she had need of reassurance. “What do you know of this deed, my lady? I would not surprise you.”

“Little enough,” she admitted with a shrug. “Save the lewd tales one hears in the kitchens. And I have seen horses, of course.”

He eased the last of the braid from the hair at her nape, then pressed a kiss to the soft flesh beneath her ear. She caught her breath, but did not move away. Rhys ran a fingertip down her throat in a gentle caress, then turned his attention to the laces on the sides of her kirtle.

“I heard it oft hurts the first time,” Madeline said suddenly.

Rhys nodded. “I have heard the same.” He unfastened the lace and drew it from the eyelets, pondering his course. He could not pledge to halt if she was hurt, not on this night. “We shall have to endeavor to ensure otherwise,” he said, then removed the second lace as he had the first. Her kirtle hung open on the sides now, and he slipped his hands beneath it, lifting it over her head and casting it aside.

The rough garment, even though somewhat fitted, had not begun to do her justice. He could discern her curves beneath the sheer linen chemise and her beauty left him speechless. She was tall, his lady wife, and wrought with slender strength. Her breasts were full, her nipples dark through the linen and pertly erect.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, hearing the awe in his voice. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, the linen an irksome barrier to her flesh. He loosed the tie at the neck of the garment, then eased the linen aside. She wore some token around her neck, trapped as it was in a velvet sack, and he did not risk removing it. Who knew what it might be?

Instead, he slipped his hand beneath it and could not believe her softness. “Softer than a rose petal,” he murmured, then bent and kissed her nipple.

Madeline caught her breath. He proceeded with gentle determination until she sighed, until she softened, until she clutched at his hair.

Rhys halted with an effort and leaned his brow upon her shoulder. “I would not hasten you. I would not remind you of Kerr,” he said thickly.

“I doubt that you could,” she whispered.

He looked and noted the stars glittering in her eyes.

“You are so gentle, Rhys.” She smiled at him. “You ask, you do not demand, and it makes all the difference.”

They shared a smile that heated his blood and he resolved to continue asking, to ask all the night long if she would let him do so. He bent and kissed her other nipple, liking well how she caught her breath again, as if surprised by the pleasure he granted. Madeline arched her back and moaned softly, that sound and the taut peak of her nipple telling Rhys that she was pleased.

She whispered his name. He chose to take that as an invitation and trailed slow kisses up her throat. He encircled her ear with tiny kisses, taking a thousand years to reach her lips. She gasped and began to rub her breasts against him. He loved how she wound her fingers into his hair, how she made little sounds of pleasure. He slipped his thumb over the fluttering pulse in her throat and held her fast against him.

When he finally captured her lips, she opened her mouth immediately to him. To his delight and astonishment, her tongue touched his, tentatively at first, then with increasing demand. Her fingers locked into his hair, she pulled him closer and Rhys was lost.

His restraint was banished by her willing participation, by her sweet softness matched with passion. His intent to be cautious was vanquished and he drew her hard against his chest. Madeline met him touch for touch, her kisses as fervid as his own. He caught her buttocks in his hands and drew her heat against him, lifting her off her feet and letting her feel her effect upon him.

Madeline broke her kiss suddenly and Rhys was ashamed to realize that he had been close to simply claiming her. She did not seem to be disgusted with him, though. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling, her breath came quickly. “I never knew that kissing could give such pleasure.”

“You have seen but the half of it.” He set her upon her feet and took a deep breath.

Madeline poked his boiled leather jerkin chest playfully. “And I have seen none of you, sir. Do you mean to meet me abed in your armor?”

“Is that an invitation?”

She lifted her chin with admirable spirit. “I am curious, Rhys, and we are wedded in truth. Surely you intend to sate my curiosity?” The proposition in her sapphire gaze was one that no man with blood in his veins could refuse.

Rhys FitzHenry had blood in his veins.

Chapter Eight

Rhys undressed with unholy haste, holding Madeline’s gaze all the while. He hoped that she did not change her thinking on this matter. He unbuckled his belt and laid his sword upon the floor with care, then unlaced his jerkin and cast it aside.

Madeline’s cheeks grew pinker with every item of clothing he discarded, though she did not look away. Indeed, she surveyed him with such curiosity that he dared to hope events might proceed well. Rhys shed his tall boots, pulled his shirt and then his chemise over his head, and paused only when he stood before his wife in no more than his chausses.

She arched a brow, looking suddenly mischievous. “I would wager that you will have to shed those, as well.”

“It is time enough that I had assistance.”

She flushed scarlet, but as he anticipated, she did not shy away. His heart fairly burst with pride when she closed the distance between them and her hand landed upon the lace of his chausses. She was intrepid, this bride he had claimed, she faced her fears with a valor he could appreciate.

“There are those who do not like bold women,” Madeline said.

“There are those who value women who are courageous.” Rhys smiled at her. “I count myself in their ranks.”

She smiled though the redness of her cheeks did not diminish. “Then perhaps we have wed well, Rhys FitzHenry. My forthright manner was oft considered a liability, until now.”

She stepped closer and he caught his breath when she claimed the end of one lace. She held his gaze, her own a violent sapphire, and slowly pulled the laces out of his chausses. His erection pushed the heavy wool aside, so desirous was he of this tempting woman. She glanced down and her valor seemed to desert her.

“There is no need for haste.” Rhys eased her hair behind her ear with a gentle fingertip. Madeline swallowed and summoned a smile, then slipped her hands into his chausses and eased them over his hips. The feel of her fingertips on his flesh coaxed the heat beneath Rhys’ flesh to a raging flame. He impatiently kicked the garment aside and stood nude before her, half certain he would lose control beneath her gaze.

He thought she might flee then, for it seemed to cost her dearly to hold her ground. He wondered how far matters had proceeded with Kerr and feared it had been too much for her, but his lady squared her shoulders. Her eyes snapped with such determination that he knew he did not have to tell her that this deed was of import.

“I choose this,” she said with vigor and looked him in the eye. “I choose you, Rhys, to be my lawfully wedded spouse.”

He was proud of her, but had no chance to tell her as much.

For the lady, against all expectation, touched him.

Rhys’ blood thundered in his ears, so astonished and aroused was he. He stood like a man turned to stone, not daring to move lest she be frightened. Her fingers explored him timidly, then with greater boldness, teasing and caressing. He did not know whether she knew how she tormented him, but he knew that he would spill her seed in her hands, if this continued.

“Madeline,” he said, fairly growling her name.

“This gives you pleasure,” she said, that wicked glint in her eye again. “I shall have to remember as much.”

Rhys could resist her no longer. “With good fortune, there will be much to remember of this night.” He claimed the end of the tie holding the neck of her chemise.

She trembled suddenly, not so bold as she had appeared, and he deliberately slowed his pace. He tugged the tie from the chemise one increment at a time. She held her breath, her eyes wide as she stared at him. Her nipples were pert.

Time seemed to halt and there was nothing beyond this chamber, nothing beyond the blue of Madeline’s eyes and the soft curve of her lips.

The tie slipped loose from the chemise and the garment fluttered over Madeline’s shoulders. She did not try to halt its descent, merely let it fall to pool around her ankles in a gossamer puddle. She straightened, aware of her nudity and his gaze, and Rhys did not hide his admiration.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, and when she smiled, he caught her close. He kissed her, waiting for her to join his embrace, then deepened his kiss when she did so. When she twined her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to him with a soft sigh, he lifted her in his arms and laid her down on the pallet without breaking his embrace.

Only then did he slip his fingers between her thighs, his heart leaping at the slick heat he found there. He caressed her, holding her captive beneath his kiss and his teasing fingers. He coaxed her to a tide of pleasure and Madeline followed his lead without hesitation.

Indeed, Rhys’ chest tightened at the trust she showed in him. It was not long before Madeline writhed, she gasped, she pulled his weight partly over her. He felt her breasts pressed against his chest, that small velvet sack caressing his skin when it was trapped between them. He felt her flesh heat as he summoned the climax from deep within her.

“Rhys!” She parted her legs further and he slipped one thigh between her own. Her hips began to buck, her kiss grew more frenzied and then the lady Madeline convulsed beneath his hand.

She broke their kiss and shouted fit to wake the dead, her nails digging into his back. Her hair was wild against the linens, her lips were swollen from his kisses and her eyes were filled with stars.

When she caught her breath, she regarded him with amazement and whispered his name with awe. There were tears upon her cheeks, and he eased them away with his thumb.

“That did not hurt,” she finally managed to say.

“We are not yet finished.” Rhys eased his weight between her thighs and saw her eyes widen when she felt his heat against her softness. He let his thumb caress her again and the tension eased from her shoulders.

She smiled at him and took a deep breath. “Show me, Rhys. I would learn of all the deed this night.”

Rhys moved with care, fighting his desire to bury himself in her sweet heat. Madeline caught her breath as he entered her, and he paused to caress her again. He was fairly bursting with the need to possess her, yet aware that this night could poison all the others they would share.

Rhys fought for restraint. He struggled to be worthy of her sweet trust. He closed his eyes and leaned his brow upon the pillow beside her, welcoming the calming stoke of her hand upon the back of his neck. He eased a little deeper and she caught her breath, her kiss landing upon his ear.

“Finish what we have begun, Rhys,” she whispered, her other hand landing upon his buttocks. He turned his head, knowing he was large enough to injure her, and kissed her. His kiss was gentle, an attempt to express an admiration that he could not fully explain in words. He swallowed her gasp, her welcoming heat and sweet kiss making him dizzy.

And he kept his thumb between them, coaxing her response anew even as he sought his own release. She quickened beneath him, as he had guessed that she would, and he resolved to wait for her to find her release again.

Though he knew it might well kill him. He watched her pleasure mount, felt her pulse race, and the sight of her arousal nigh undid him.

And when she cried out, he felt like a champion. No sooner had Madeline clutched his shoulders again than Rhys fairly exploded within her heat. Satisfaction swelled his heart that he had claimed Madeline as his bride for all eternity.

It was some time before Rhys recalled that with this deed, he had also secured his suzerainty of Caerwyn.

* * *

Madeline had never guessed that people found such pleasure abed. To be sure, there had been some pain, but the delight Rhys had summoned with his fingertips had made it easy to endure.

And in future, she hoped that she would have no pain.

Indeed, this coupling left her with a splendid sense of contentment. She smiled as she stroked Rhys’ dark hair. He yet lay partly atop her as he dozed against her shoulder. His release had exhausted him, it was clear, though Madeline did not mind. She liked having the opportunity to study him, and found him far less daunting while he slept.

To be sure, Rhys was wrought more formidably than she had imagined. It was not armor alone that made his chest look so broad, nor was it his boots that made him stand so tall. His skin was tanned and covered in places with a dark tangle of curly hair; his muscled strength was considerable. There were scars upon his flesh, scars from battle wounds long healed. He was vigorous and virile.

And he was her wedded spouse. He had been tender with her, despite his evident desire, and he had pursued her pleasure as diligently as his own. Though she had initially been fearful that Kerr’s way was the sole way, she was glad beyond glad that she had found the fortitude to learn the truth. Rhys did not mind that she was curious, nor that she touched him of her own volition, nor that she welcomed his passion with her own. And he had not been censorious in those moments when her valor abandoned her.

Rhys was not James, to be sure, and he would never be the gentle-mannered man that James had been, but there was merit in this man she had wed. Madeline watched her fingers slip through his hair and considered that her match was made well enough.

She might never love Rhys as she had loved James, and Rhys might never love her, but she already felt a certain affection for her gruff spouse. It was no small thing that he appreciated her as she was, that he ensured her safety with such vigor, that he courted mutual pleasure abed with such enthusiasm.

Madeline might even find a certain contentment with this warrior. The prospect made her smile broaden just as Rhys opened his eyes. He regarded her for a moment with the same reverence that had lit his eyes when he had removed her kirtle, then his lips curved slightly.

“You are pleased?”

Madeline nodded, feeling herself flush.

He propped himself upon on his elbow, removing his weight from her with an apology. He was yet close beside her, seeming larger and warmer now that he had awakened. He looked disheveled as she had never seen him, almost boyish. The slow smile that kindled a heat in his gaze was not boyish, however, and made her tingle in recollection of what they had just done. “And did it hurt?”

Madeline shrugged. “A little, though the pleasure was worth the price.” She touched the marks her nails had left upon his back. “Did this hurt?”

He spared the marks no more than the barest glance, then granted her a smile so wicked that her breath was stolen away. “The pleasure was worth the price,” he echoed, then claimed her lips anew. He kissed her with leisure, his fingertips sliding lightly over her flesh, and reawakened her ardor with astonishing ease.

One touch from Rhys and her blood fairly simmered, one caress and she yearned to feel his strength within her again. His kisses at Ravensmuir had been a mere portent of the pleasure he could grant her. She returned his embrace, liking that his erection grew against her thigh.

Perhaps she had a power to please him, as well.

Rhys broke their kiss and rolled to his back, folding his hands behind his neck, as if to keep himself from touching her. “Once this night will suffice for you, I think,” he said, his tone so rueful that Madeline laughed.

She liked that she already had the confidence in his nature to tease him. She touched his erection with a fingertip and it lifted beneath her caress. “But not for you?”

He gave her a glance so lustful that her mouth went dry. “I suspect that once with you will never suffice for me, anwylaf,” he said, his words low and his eyes dark.

She assumed the Welsh word meant “wife”, for it sounded so similar, and she did not mind the sound of it upon his lips. “Then my caress is a cruel one,” she whispered.

Rhys shrugged, a slow smile claiming his lips again. “Perhaps the pleasure is worth the price.”

Madeline laughed and laid her hand upon his chest. Rhys rolled to his side, facing her, and snared her hand within his own. His thumb slid across her palm in a slow caress and she smiled at him, feeling a contentment beyond expectation.

“Perhaps we have wrought a son already,” he said.

“As quickly as that?”

“It is possible.” His gaze dropped to their entwined hands and his words slowed. “My father always said that sons were wrought in passion, while daughters were wrought in dutiful coupling.”

Madeline felt herself flush, for they had met with passion indeed this night. “What a notion! I should like to think myself wrought in passion, not duty.”

“Perhaps he only said as much to encourage me.”

Madeline was puzzled. “Why would that encourage you?”

“Because I am bastard-born, but a son nonetheless.” Rhys lifted a fingertip to her cheek, stroking her as if she were wrought of fine silk. “My father only had daughters by his lady wife.”

Madeline frowned and put an increment of space between them. She was more troubled by this confession than she could have believed. “Your father took a whore to ensure that he had a son?”

“Aye, he did. And it was a successful ploy, clearly.”

That Rhys could endorse such infidelity, and do so with such calm, infuriated Madeline.

All the same, it was more difficult to shun Rhys’ heat and his touch than she would have liked. She donned her chemise with hasty gestures and gathered her thoughts with an effort, well aware of the weight of his perceptive gaze.

“What is amiss?” he asked

Madeline put the width of the chamber between them, considering her course. She did not want secrets between them, nor fears, so she pivoted to confront him. “How quickly will you turn to another woman to have the sons you desire?”

“What do you mean?”

Madeline heard her voice rise. “How much time do you grant me to conjure your son, Rhys? How long will you frequent my bed afore you take a whore?”

Rhys sat up and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes narrowed, but Madeline did not care if he was irked. “You are vexed by this prospect.”

“My parents found pleasure solely with each other for the duration of their match. I expect no less of my marriage, howsoever it was wrought.”

Rhys shook his head. “But that is unreasonable. With Caerwyn beneath my hand, I have need of sons to ensure the preservation and protection of my legacy.”

“And you have greater need of the loyalty of your wife.” When Rhys did not agree, Madeline continued in haste. “What gain was made by your father taking other women to his bed? He had a son, to be sure, but I doubt that your place in his household was an easy one.”

Rhys’ lips set in a stubborn line. “It is a question of the law of inheritance.”

“You know as well as I that a daughter can inherit through her spouse, if necessary.”

Rhys looked grim. “I will not have it. Strife comes of such uncertainty; strife and war and waste. It is irresponsible for a man to not ensure that he provides an heir who is a son.”

Madeline regarded him in astonishment. On the very night of her nuptials, her husband was vowing to be unfaithful to her! How could she have imagined she might find contentment with him? “Swear to me that you will come to my bed alone.”

He shook his head, impatient with the very notion. “You ask too much in this. I will have a son, if not two. And if they do not come from you, they shall come from another woman’s womb.” He rose and donned his chemise, apparently untroubled that she was so furious with him. “Under Welsh law, their mother’s name is of less import than their father’s seed.”

“I care nothing for the law! I will not be mocked in my own household!” Madeline fairly shouted. Never had her concerns been so casually dismissed. “I will not be compelled to show courtesy to a whore who has usurped my place.”

There was silence in the chamber then, a silence broken solely by the quickness of Madeline’s breath. Rhys donned his chausses as if he had not a care in the world, then donned his boots and fastened his belt about his waist.

Only once he had checked his weapons did he meet her gaze steadily. “Then I would suggest that you conceive a son with all haste, my lady.” With that, he bent to pick up his cloak.

His dismissive attitude infuriated Madeline as little else could have done.

“You faithless wretch! I should abandon this travesty of a marriage now!”

Rhys spared a telling glance at the ruby stain of her lost maidenhead upon the linens. “And who would welcome you?” he asked, as if curious to know her answer. “Your brother will not surrender my coin, nor will he find another willing suitor for you after last night. I will not tell a falsehood about what has happened between us this night, upon that you may rely.”

Madeline glared at him, disliking the truth in his words. Indeed, her fury made her shake. “I should deny you access to my bed!”

That dangerous gleam lit Rhys’ eye, though still he spoke with studied calm. “And how will that ensure that you conceive a son? How will it compel me to not take another woman to my bed? You are too keen of wit to not see the flaw in that scheme, my lady.”

Rhys was right and they both knew it, though that did little to soothe Madeline’s temper. His eyes shone, so certain was he that she was cornered, and Madeline yearned to prove him wrong. But any reluctance she showed abed would persuade him that they would not conceive a son, as he believed his father’s edict about passion.

She glared across the chamber at the evidence of what they had done. He spoke aright about her lost maidenhead. Madeline’s sole path forward was as Rhys FitzHenry’s wife.

Madeline drew herself to her full height and spoke with all the frost she could muster. “I salute your cunning, sir, for you have ensured that I have no choice but to grant your will to you. But your triumph is won at great cost.”

“I see no cost in ensuring that matters will be between us as they should be.”

“Oh! You are a barbarian indeed!” she cried. “You have lost my good will, which should be of import to you! What manner of Christian pledges to be unfaithful to his bride upon the night of their nuptials?”

Rhys’ lips thinned. “An honest man in need of a son.”

“You will not blame me for your cruel confession.”

“Nay?” For the first time, Rhys showed annoyance. He jabbed a finger through the air at Madeline as he crossed the chamber, his eyes flashing. “You were the one to demand honesty of me, but you complain at your first taste of the truth.” He shoved a hand through his hair and glowered at her. “Would you prefer that I lie to you about my intent? Would you prefer to be deceived?”

“I would prefer that you be faithful!”

He donned his tabard with curt gestures. “The remedy for that is within your own womb.”

Of course, no woman had control over her womb. Madeline could not choose when to become pregnant, let alone which gender of child she bore. It was scarce the same as choosing between red or green samite for a kirtle.

And Rhys knew it, curse him. Madeline clenched her fists and drew a fortifying breath, the urge to murder this man growing stronger by the moment.

“I would ask you to return the crucifix to its rightful place, husband,” she said with heat. “For I have need of a witness to my prayers.”

“While you pray for that son?” It was as much a statement as a question. Apparently as untroubled by her mood as he could possibly be, Rhys retrieved the sculpture and hung it again.

“Perhaps I mean to pray for widowhood,” Madeline said sweetly. “For that would solve all of the woes come to me this night.” She saw the flash of alarm in Rhys’ eyes, but she did not care. She fell to her knees and prayed with fervor, acknowledging her husband’s hovering presence no more.

Let Rhys worry what she asked of the Almighty. He deserved no less than that measure of uncertainty.

* * *

Rhys had always found women somewhat incomprehensible and a goodly amount of trouble. It was small consolation that his new wife proved his earlier conclusions to be valid.

No less that she did so with such gusto.

He watched her pray, well aware that she was deliberately ignoring him. He was certain her mood would pass, but the night retreated and Madeline did not rise from her knees. Her lips worked and her eyes remained closed, and he realized that she was no longer ignoring him.

She was oblivious to his presence.

And she prayed, as if expecting results.

Rhys had never troubled overmuch with prayer. He was of the opinion—taught to him by his indomitable mother—that God aided to those who aided themselves. Anything he had ever desired, he had labored to make his own, instead of demanding divine intervention to see his desired fulfilled. Indeed, he was skeptical that God would even lend an ear to the prayers of a man like him: mortal men of power became deaf when bastards spoke, and he could see no reason why an immortal lord should be different.

Madeline, however, appeared to have expectations. Was she accustomed to having her prayers answered? And if that were true, what might she ask of God?

Surely she had jested about requesting widowhood?

Rhys was not so certain. It was clear enough that Madeline might have regrets about the nuptial vows they had exchanged just the day before. It would have taken a less perceptive man than he to miss the fact that she had not taken well to his determination to have a son.

The prospect of losing her troubled Rhys more than he would have liked to admit, though he knew his marriage was of strategic import alone. He was more concerned about losing Caerwyn than Madeline—or so he told himself as he watched her lips move silently in appeal.

All the same, it would not have been all bad for matters to have remained amiable between them. Their mating had gone well enough, at least in his view, and he had been fairly certain she had been pleased as well. She knew he needed a son, so why did his determination to have one trouble her so much? Bastards were common in Wales and great lords commonly had concubines living openly alongside their wives.

Perhaps matters were different in Scotland.

Barbarian. Rhys had called many things in his days, worse things by far, but his new wife’s accusation had stung.

Rhys shuffled his feet, but Madeline showed no awareness of his movement. He donned his cloak and noisily resettled his blades in their scabbards. She remained as immobile as a statue, except for her lips which worked in silent fury. He began to wonder what request would require such a protracted appeal and a new restlessness dawned upon him.

It was then that a whisper carried through the small window. “Rhys!”

It was Thomas, Rhys was certain of it.

“Rhys, are you there?” The monk spoke in Welsh, which made Rhys’ blood quicken. Something was amiss.

He hastened to the window and peered over the high sill. Thomas huddled beneath the window. That the monk tried to hide his bulk in the slim shadow there would have been amusing had his manner not been so troubled.

“I am here, Thomas. Tell me what news you bring.”

“They are coming for you, Rhys, six riders on great steeds.” Thomas glanced from the gate to Rhys repeatedly, his anxiety clear. “They ride directly for our gates. I will not be able to halt them, but they must not find you here.”

Rhys clutched the sill. “Whose insignia do they wear?”

Thomas granted him a glance filled with concern. “They wear no markings, though their steeds are too impressive for their riders to be of no import at all. Great black destriers, they are, their coats gleaming like a raven’s plumage.”

This was no good news.

“I fear you speak aright, Thomas.” Rhys pivoted and found Madeline watching him with wide eyes. He cast her kirtle and her boots toward her and spoke so that she would understand. “Garb yourself with haste. We leave immediately.”

She held her garments before herself. “But why? Where do we go?”

“There is no time to speak of it now.” Rhys had no intent of telling his bride how closely the king’s men had come to capturing him when he last he had ventured out of Wales. He did not want to frighten her, and in truth, once they reached Caerwyn, he did not intend to leave those protective walls again soon. A trickle of dread slid down his spine, for he did not know what the king’s men would do to his new bride.

He feared he could guess, though, for Madeline’s beauty could not be denied. His determination to escape was redoubled.

“Make haste!” he said so harshly that she flinched.

She did his bidding, though, at least for the moment.

Rhys turned again to the window, just as the bells pealed from the gate, and spoke in Welsh again. “Thomas? Have you a scheme?”

“Go through the kitchens, Rhys. There are few awake as yet. And linger in the shadows until this party is shown in to meet the abbess. I will ensure that your steeds are saddled so that you can flee while they await her hospitality.”

“It will not give us much of a margin, but it is the sole one we will be granted,” Rhys agreed.

“Godspeed to you, old friend, in case I have not the chance again to wish you well.”

“And thank you for your aid, Thomas. I am again in your debt.”

“You do not know yet what price that destrier will fetch,” Thomas teased, then he was gone.

Rhys turned to Madeline again. To his relief, she was fully dressed and she was fastening the end of the plait in her hair.

“I hear horses.” She regarded him with curiosity, her fingers working with haste. “Who comes that we must leave so quickly?”

He recalled too well her intent to be rid of him and decided that honesty would have to be sacrificed until they were too far away for her to betray him. “Trouble for my aunt, no doubt,” he said. “She is one to pick battles and I have neither the time nor the inclination to become entangled in her woes. Come!”

“But why such haste?”

Rhys granted her a quelling glance—which had no discernible effect—then seized her hand instead. “There is no time for discussion. We must be silent.”

Madeline held her ground. “I wish to know what is happening.”

“Then I will answer your queries once we are away from here.” He drew her closer and held her gaze, feeling like a cur for what he had to do. “Trust me in this, Madeline.”

The use of her name seemed to soften her resistance. Though her lips remained thin, she no longer fought his urging. He drew her hood over her hair and opened the portal.

He looked to the left and to the right, saw no other soul, then ducked out into the hall. He decided that the kitchen was to the left, for he could smell bread rising and they had come from the right on the night before. He set a brisk pace, his wife fast behind him and blessedly quiet.

Thus far.

Rhys already knew his lady wife well enough to realize that situation could not last.

Chapter Nine

Madeline remained silent—with an effort—until they reached the stables. Thomas was saddling Rhys’ dappled grey destrier. A chestnut palfrey stood beside the large stallion, its bright eye and tendency to fidget showing that it was ready to run. Rhys offered Madeline a hand to lift her into the palfrey’s saddle but she stepped away from him.

“This is not Tarascon.”

“Nay, it is not,” Rhys said, speaking through gritted teeth. “Nor is this steed injured.” He offered his hand again, with greater insistence, and his eyes snapped with impatience.

“But I cannot leave without my horse!”

“And you cannot thwart her healing by riding her hard so soon after that injury.”

“Then I will not ride hard this day.”

Rhys made an exasperated noise. Before he could argue, Madeline anxiously looked around the stable. She could not even spy Tarascon. She feared suddenly that the palfrey had been killed because of the injury and none had told her of it.

She clutched Rhys’ arm. “What have you done to her? Where is she? How could you have her killed and not tell me of it?”

“The steed is not dead,” Rhys said with such conviction that Madeline almost believed him. He shoved a hand through his hair, glanced to the courtyard, then paced to the end of the stables. His next words were more kindly uttered. “Look here, at this palfrey, and be quick about it.”

He gestured to a mare of darker hue than Tarascon and lacking the familiar white star upon her brow. “That is not Tarascon!” Madeline had time to say before the beast nickered and came to bury its nose in her hand.

She stared, astonished that this horse moved in so similar a manner to her own, and indeed, seemed to know her. She glanced up to find Rhys’ eyes twinkling.

“Do you not recognize your own steed?” he asked, his words low with laughter. “She knows you well enough.”

Madeline stared at the horse nuzzling her palm, then stroked her ears. It was Tarascon, albeit disguised. “But what happened to the star on her brow?”

“Soot, my lady,” said Thomas. “It rid her of her socks, as well as darkening her hue. Only one who knew her and looked closely would know her now.”

Indeed, even Madeline’s eye had passed over the beast.

“She will be safe here, my lady, safer than we may be,” Rhys said with quiet vigor. “Come.”

Even as she formed the question on her lips, voices carried from the bailey to their ears.

Rhys’ manner changed immediately. “Now! We must begone.”

Thomas peered through the stable doors. “They go into the abbey. This may be your sole chance, Rhys.”

Rhys paused beside the palfrey and offered Madeline his hand again. She was torn between her loyalty to her lawful husband and to the steed she had known from its foaling.

“But I cannot leave Tarascon!”

“You must.”

“I will ensure her good care, my lady,” Thomas interjected.

“But she is my steed. I have ridden her for years. I cannot simply abandon her!” It was more than leaving the steed that she protested, and Madeline knew it well. Tarascon was her last link with Kinfairlie, with all that was familiar to her.

“There is no time for such discussion.” Rhys spoke with such fierce precision that Madeline knew he was irked with her. “Mount this steed immediately, my lady, or I will cast you across the saddle with mine own hands and truss you there.”

Madeline bristled. “That would hardly be appropriate. You may have the right to do as you will with me, but I do not have to endure it silently.”

“I scarce imagine you could do so.”

“Oh!”

Thomas seemed to be fighting a smile and losing the battle. “How sweet it is to see two destined lovers seal their fates together for all eternity,” he murmured

“I will thank you to keep your whimsy to yourself,” Rhys snapped, then reached for Madeline’s waist. His hands closed hard around her, despite her squeal of protest, and she was dropped into the saddle without further ceremony. Rhys glared up at her. “Must I truss you there, or can you be trusted not to leap from the saddle and injure yourself?”

Madeline met his gaze with equal fury. “I am not so foolish as that.”

Rhys seized the palfrey’s reins, sparing her only a dark glance that spoke volumes, and knotted the reins to the back of his saddle. “Our sole chance of safe departure lies in silence. I recommend you say nothing, my lady, or I will be compelled to gag you to ensure as much.”

Madeline did not doubt that he would do it. She set her lips and sat straight in the saddle. She had learned once that fleeing this man could only grant her greater trouble. Though Rhys was crude and rough-spoken, he had never injured her.

She supposed she would have to be content with that. No court in Christendom would annul her match, or cede her a divorce: their match was consummated and they shared no kinship. With the spill of her maidenhead, Madeline was tethered to Rhys FitzHenry for life, for better or for worse.

Rhys swung into his own saddle, awaited Thomas' signal, then urged his horse into the bailey at a slow canter. Rhys’ dog appeared from some corner of the stables, a shaggy grey shadow that matched its pace to their own. Six steeds were tethered in the shadows on the far side of the bailey, but Madeline barely had a glimpse of them before Rhys hustled her onward.

Thomas ran ahead opened the gate, the two men shaking hands as the pair of steeds passed the ostler. “Thank you, Thomas, yet again.” Rhys said.

“Ride, my old friend, and ride swiftly,” Thomas said with a fervor that surprised Madeline again. “Ride long and hard this day. I will keep them here as long as I can, and I will pray for you.” The monk blinked with sudden vigor and his words turned husky. “Be well, both of you, and know that you will always be welcome at my gates.”

It seemed a rather fulsome expression of friendship to Madeline and she peered at her spouse with new interest. She doubted she would learn more of their shared past from Rhys, and the sorry fact was that she might never see talkative Thomas again.

Rhys touched his spurs to his destrier’s flanks, and the beast needed little encouragement to run. The sky was only faintly touched with the rosy hue of the dawn, the dew heavy on the ground. Madeline pulled her cloak more tightly about herself and held fast to the saddle, shivering slightly in the dampness. She was glad to have the plain woolen garb from the abbey, for though the kirtle was crudely cut, it was thick and warmer than the one she had worn the day before.

The abbey was left behind them with startling speed and only now, Madeline had the chance to speculate upon those arrivals. She did not doubt that their presence had driven Rhys to leave with such haste.

Was it the king’s men who had come to capture Rhys as a traitor? That alone could explain Rhys’ desire for haste and silence. Madeline glanced back at the abbey, which looked serene and sleepy in the distance.

What would happen to her, if Rhys was captured by the crown? Traitors seldom were granted a fair trial or a kind death, that much she knew for certain. As much as Madeline was loathe to admit it, her best protection might be in conceiving that heir to her husband’s property.

She studied Rhys’ back as he rode ahead of her, his back straight and uncompromising. Madeline supposed she should become accustomed to not knowing her husband’s thoughts, for he clearly preferred to hold them close, though she doubted she was the nature of woman who could readily manage such a feat.

She was simply too curious.

Perhaps she should turn her intellect—which Rhys professed to admire—to the task of uncovering her husband’s many secrets. She doubted that a woman could save her husband from the charge of treason, as Vivienne had suggested, but it would not hurt to know the truth of Rhys’ deeds and history. She might then be able to protect her child, should she conceive one.

Or even herself.

Madeline smiled to herself, well pleased with the notion of challenging Rhys’ expectations of her. She suspected she might be able to learn much more than her husband would prefer.

And truly, if Rhys FitzHenry had wanted a dutiful, obedient wife, he should have bought himself one.

* * *

Their best chance—at least to Rhys’ thinking—was to avoid the lands of the English king, or of those barons pledged to serve him. For all Rhys knew, there might now be a fat bounty upon his head.

And he had a keen desire to survive somewhat longer.

Rhys found a road that led southwest and wagered that this would be the road his pursuers would anticipate he would follow. He took it, intending to turn aside as soon as possible. Sadly, the hills rose steeply on either side of the path, and the unbroken crest of the hills on either side indicated that they would not be surmounted readily or quickly.

He wanted to go west, or even northwest, but for the moment was compelled to choose between riding back past the abbey, or continuing on southward with the hope of not being overtaken.

Madeline must have guessed his thoughts. “Rhys, give me the reins of my steed.”

He glanced back, uncertain.

“We will make better time without the horses hobbled together.” She smiled slightly, perhaps at his surprise. “You need not fear for me keeping your pace. I have ridden from the time I could reach the stirrup.”

“And should I fear for your intent?”

Madeline shrugged. “A live husband suits me better than one drawn and quartered as a traitor.” He was not truly surprised that she had guessed the real reason for their sudden departure, but he did not answer her.

Her expression turned wry when he said nothing. “That is true for the moment, at least. You would do well to not labor so stridently to change my thinking. It occurs to me that you might have need of an ally other than Thomas.”

Rhys found himself smiling in admiration of her forthright speech. “Fair enough. I could endeavor to vex you less.” They shared a tentative smile, all the sweeter for how little he had expected amity between them again. “But in this moment, I have need of counsel. I would make for Glasgow.”

“Why?”

Rhys braced himself to deceive her yet again. “I have a friend there, whom I would visit before returning home.”

She did not believe him, he saw as much immediately. Indeed, Rhys suspected that there was not another woman in Christendom whose thoughts could be read so easily in her eyes as those of his new wife.

But she did not challenge him upon this detail. Madeline bit her lip and scanned the hills on either side of them. To his relief, she asked no further questions, though it might simply have been that she doubted he would answer them.

“If Moffatt lies ahead,” she mused, “as I suspect it must, there is a road from there to Glasgow. It goes by Abington and Kirkmuirhill. I have heard my uncles speak of its smooth course.”

“Excellent.” Rhys cast her the reins. “It will be a long day, my lady. Tell me when you can endure it no longer.”

Madeline nodded, but a glint of resolve lit her eyes, a glint that told Rhys again that his lady wife was forged of stern steel. He could rely upon her to not be the weak link in their escape.

If that was the sole good news of this day, it was good enough. He gave his steed his spurs and the horses galloped down the narrow path, flinging mud from their hooves as the sun climbed over the horizon.

* * *

Madeline was relieved that Moffat had indeed proven to be ahead of them, and that they reached it afore the empty growl of her belly became too much to bear. The road coiled around a hill before approaching Moffat’s gates and Rhys indicated that they should hide themselves in the cluster of trees at the summit. They rode up the hill from the side opposite the village, so that the gatekeeper could not glimpse them.

Rhys tethered the horses there, pausing only to aid Madeline to dismount and to turn his tabard inside-out. The red dragon was hidden thus, the tabard plain black.

“Caerwyn,” he whispered. “Say it.”

“Caerwyn,” Madeline echoed, and he corrected her pronunciation.

He caught her chin between his finger and thumb and met her gaze steadily. “You are lady there, and let no man tell you otherwise. Go there, alone if you must, and tell them of this truth. Tell them that my son rides in your belly, whether it be true or not. None will dare to raise a hand against you.” He brushed his lips across her brow, his words making Madeline’s spirit quail.

He feared he might not return.

Before she could speak, Rhys was gone, retracing their steps with long strides. His dog sat vigil beside her, watching avidly as Rhys returned to the road, out of view of the gatekeeper, then strode toward the village as if he had been walking all the while. His kiss burned upon Madeline’s forehead and she wondered what he knew, what he suspected, what he anticipated would meet him within those walls.

Little good, that was for certain. Despite herself, despite her annoyance with her vexing new spouse, Madeline feared for him.

Rhys whistled as he walked, weapons tucked around the back of his belt and his cloak pulled against the wind. Without his horse, he looked like a mercenary betrayed by Fortune. He walked to the village gates, his dark figure growing ever smaller. He hailed the gatekeeper with a wave, paused to speak to the man, then disappeared into the village without a backward glance. The hound straightened, its unblinking gaze fixed upon the point where Rhys had disappeared.

Madeline knotted her hands together and was uncommonly glad that she had not prayed for widowhood. Gone were the high walls of Kinfairlie, the certain influence of father and uncles, the defense of armed men. The security she had known for all her days and nights was gone, as was her childish conviction that all must come aright, simply of necessity.

It was not long before Madeline was watching as anxiously as the hound for Rhys’ return. In his absence, her thoughts began to race. What if Rhys was a traitor? Guilty or not, what if he was apprehended?

She remembered all too well—and somewhat disconcertingly—the tale of Henry Hotspur, who had challenged the authority of Henry IV, the father of the current English king. Heir to the Percy earldom near Kinfairlie, Henry Hotspur had wrought a bargain with a Welshman and the Mortimer heir who had a competing claim to the English crown. All three had been condemned as traitors, though they had fought on in defense of their union.

Henry Hotspur had been killed in battle and his corpse had been sent home to his grieving wife and father. After his funeral, his body had been exhumed and decapitated, at the command of Henry IV, who intended to wring a lesson from the demise of one of his enemies. Hotspur’s head had been displayed at York; his body quartered and displayed at London, Newcastle, Bristol and Chester. It had been left hanging for a year, as a warning to would-be traitors throughout the king’s lands.

Madeline shivered. No man deserved such an indignity, regardless of his deeds. Rhys could not deserve such a fate.

But if his course had been anticipated, and he was seized in Moffat, how would she know? She doubted that Rhys would betray her presence to another living soul, no matter what was done to him.

He was protective of her, if nothing else.

Madeline watched, more concerned for Rhys with every additional moment he was gone. She recalled now that the Neville clan quibbled over suzerainty of Moffat, the same Neville family so burdened with children to wed, the same Neville family so adept at making fortuitous matches. The same Neville family had been granted stewardship of the western Marches by the English king. They would sell a traitor to the king with nary a second thought.

And their darling son, Reginald Neville, would not beg clemency for the man who had embarrassed him at Ravensmuir’s auction.

Madeline bit her lip in trepidation. The sun rose higher, drying the dew and heating the stones. Its golden warmth seemed to coax spring’s tendrils to unfurl, but Madeline stared fixedly at the town. The horses grazed behind her, peeling young shoots from the trees, but Madeline spared them no attention.

The sound of approaching hoof beats made her heart race. She dared not be discovered! She urged Rhys’ steed deeper into the forest and held her hand over his dog’s snout as she tried to count the steeds. She could see nothing through the dense undergrowth of the forest, though that meant that none could see her. She dared not venture closer to the edge of the forest for a better look.

For there were a number of horses passing her hiding place. At least six. They were large, as large as destriers, for their hoof beats fell with force. And they made uncommon haste.

Could they be the steeds from the abbey? Her heart fairly stopped at the prospect.

Surely they would not seize Rhys at Moffat?

Surely she could not lose him so soon?

* * *

There were voices at Moffat’s gate.

Rhys ducked into an alley in the nick of time, his purchases held fast against his chest. He listened and was startled to hear the sound of a woman’s voice.

No less, a familiar woman’s voice.

“I seek a young woman,” that woman said, her tone authoritative. “She has dark hair and blue eyes, and is fair indeed to look upon. She might travel with a man garbed as a mercenary.”

Rhys stifled the urge to peek with difficulty, for he could not believe his own ears. Rosamunde led the party in pursuit of Madeline?

Rhys frowned at this conclusion, unable to understand why this might be. It had been Rosamunde who had ensured that he could join the auction. What had changed her thinking? What had happened at Ravensmuir after their departure?

“I have seen no such woman,” the gatekeeper said gruffly.

“And the man?”

Rhys caught his breath and flattened himself into the shadow of the wall.

The gatekeeper scoffed. “Who can say? Men come and men go—I do not note them, particularly the mercenaries. If they mean no harm and intend to be gone by sunset, they are welcome to leave coin in our coffers.”

“You cannot be so poor of sight and memory as this!” Rosamunde said.

“I cannot be expected to confess all I know to a stranger!” the gatekeeper retorted. “Especially one so oddly garbed and bold a wench as you.”

“Let us pass!” Rosamunde said imperiously. “We will make our own search.”

“You will surrender your weapons here, for I do not trust you to be peaceful within these walls.”

Rosamunde argued with the gatekeeper but made no progress. Rhys listened as she surrendered her weapons in poor humor, then commanded her company to do the same.

Those six black destriers strode past his hiding place, their tails flicking and their nostrils flaring. Madeline’s brother Alexander was within the company. The heir to Kinfairlie looked more a man already, not only because of his armor but because of his somber expression. Beside him rode two of Madeline’s sisters, the next eldest who had plagued him with questions at Ravensmuir’s board and the youngest, so smitten with fairies.

Two other men comprised the rest of the party, one of whom Rhys had noted at Ravensmuir. He was as flamboyantly garbed as Rosamunde and must have been her comrade. The last man was a stranger. He might have been the same age as Alexander and Rhys studied him with curiosity. He carried a lute slung across his back, and was wrought slender with pale skin and fair hair.

Something pricked at Rhys’ memory, though he could not name it in this moment. To be sure, he could not fathom why Rosamunde would bring a musician with her, unless she meant to keep him in her company. Perhaps this one was uncommonly gifted.

Much to Rhys’ annoyance, Rosamunde left the musician to guard the gates while she led the others toward the town square.

“We will find hay and water for the horses,” she instructed. “Then ale and a hot meal for ourselves. Doubtless there will be a tavern in the main square, and with a full belly, we will search more effectively for Madeline.”

Rhys retreated further into the shadows to think. Why did they seek Madeline? This family had auctioned Madeline’s hand, so slender was their concern for her, yet within a day, they dispatched a company riding in pursuit. It made little sense.

It made even less sense that Rosamunde led the search. Rhys knew Rosamunde’s nature enough to guess that she saw some advantage in this mission to herself, and that she would think little of betraying anyone to serve her own ends. She alone might have the audacity to threaten to deliver Rhys to the king to ensure her terms—whatever they might be.

Even knowing what he knew now, even seeing the concern of Madeline’s siblings, Rhys was not anxious to make acquaintance with the daring adventuress Rosamunde just yet. Let her pursue him to Caerwyn, where he had the choice of whether the raise the portcullis or not.

A woman cleared her throat and Rhys jumped, then pretended to have been relieving himself in the alley. She rolled her eyes as he fumbled with his chausses.

“Is there another tavern?” he asked of her, slurring his speech as if besotted. Additionally, such speech would disguise his unfamiliar accent. He gestured toward the town square. “That one would beggar a common man.”

“There,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction as if glad to be rid of his presence. “Around the corner and to the left is Old Man McGillivray’s house. He will sell you a cup of his ale, though I doubt you have much need of another.”

“I thank you, good woman!” Rhys bowed, then pretended to lose his balance. He gripped the wall and waved after the woman, thanking her profusely as she made haste to get away from him.

Then he turned in the direction she had indicated, drawing his hood over his head. He dared not be seen, yet he could not attempt to pass through the gates just yet.

The musician needed time to become bored with his task.

And Rhys needed to find some soul who could unwittingly provide him with the means to pass the gates unnoted.

* * *

It was nearly midday and still there was no sign of Rhys. How long could it take the man to buy bread and apples?

The horses had disappeared into the town and Madeline had returned cautiously to her earlier place. She had seen precious few men come and go from the town since Rhys had disappeared. Moffat’s gates seemed to swallow souls and not allow them to depart. She would go mad if she stood vigil, fretting, any longer.

With a start, she realized that she could walk into the town, just as Rhys had done.

Madeline surveyed herself. Her garb was dirty enough and austere enough that none would grant her a second look—not unless she rode a fine horse and drew every eye to herself. She would leave the horses here, as Rhys had done.

She could pretend to be a farmer’s wife. No, she knew no one locally and that alone would prompt suspicion. She must concoct a fitting tale of who she was and how she came to be in Moffat alone.

She could pretend to be the wife of a mercenary seeking news of her lost spouse. Aha! It was unfortunate that she was not round with Rhys’ child, as yet. A pregnancy would elicit sympathy as well as ensure that she was not assaulted by some fiend like Kerr.

The thought was too good to abandon. Madeline rummaged in Rhys’ saddlebag, feeling like a thief for no good reason, and claimed a pair of his rumpled chemises. They smelled of Rhys and she impulsively buried her nose in them for a moment, breathing deeply of the scent of his flesh, curiously as reassured as if he stood beside her.

She could have done worse for a spouse, that much was certain. Rhys was no courtier, but she fancied that his heart was good.

She knotted his chemises into a round bundle. She tore her own chemise and secured the bundle beneath her skirts as if she was indeed ripe with child. She patted the lump, well pleased with her efforts, and ensured that the horses were well tethered.

“Stay,” she bade the hound, which watched her so warily that she could not be certain it would obey.

A farmer’s wagon, drawn by a weary plough horse, came through the town gates just as Madeline made to step out of her hiding place. She impatiently settled back into the shadows as she waited for the wagon to pass. It would not do for the horses to be stolen while she retrieved Rhys. She dared not be spied as she left this place, and would have preferred to have no contact with any soul upon the road.

The wagon was cursedly slow, as if its driver meant specifically to try her patience. The farmer seemed merry enough and was obviously chatting with his boy who rode behind him. Madeline heaved a sigh, certain they had savored the ale in town overmuch, for they sang loudly and tunelessly. She wished they would hasten themselves home. The hound watched them as keenly as did Madeline. They rounded the hill, laughing like fools, and she knew she was nearly rid of them.

To her dismay, the wagon halted at the base of the hill on the far side from the village. The boy, who proved to be large enough to a man, rolled out of the back. He tripped over his own feet, the drunken lout, and landed face-down beside the road. The farmer laughed so hard that his state could hardly be better.

Madeline was less amused, for she knew that dark tabard and dark tousle of hair all too well.

Here she had stood worrying, while Rhys had been drinking himself into a stupor! Her cursed spouse stumbled drunkenly to the woods on the other side of the road. Madeline looked away in disgust as he fumbled with the lacing on his chausses. He tripped anew, fell harder, and did not move again.

Here she had been fearful for the man’s very survival! The prospect of throttling him herself grew mightily in appeal.

Madeline simmered, even as she watched the farmer stagger to Rhys’ side. The older man gave Rhys a poke in the shoulder, but Rhys did not move. The hound growled at Madeline’s feet and she put a hand upon its collar.

The farmer punched Rhys harder, and Rhys took a drunken swing at the other man, rolled to his back and began to snore.

The farmer found this so amusing that he had to sit down on a stone until his laughter subsided.

Oh, Alexander had done well, in finding Madeline a husband not only charged with treason, but rough of manner and unable to resist the allure of ale! What need of an auction? He could have abandoned her at the nearest tavern to find such a rare prize of a spouse.

But then, Alexander would not have had Rhys’ coin. Madeline grit her teeth, so heartily displeased was she with the men in her life, and glared at events unfolding below.

The farmer wiped his brow, gave his drinking partner one last salute, then climbed into his cart and whistled to his ancient horse. The cart creaked as it began to move and the farmer started to sing a drunken ditty. Rhys did not move, so deep was his stupor.

Madeline should leave him there to rot! He deserved no less for such selfish folly.

But the sorry fact was that Rhys was little good to her drunk in a ditch. He was her husband: Madeline had pledged herself to him. Though this was worse than she had expected, she was not a woman to forget her pledges.

What to do? She could not carry the man, nor even drag him to his steed. She supposed she should go to him, like the sweet dutiful wife she was not, and see just how badly he was impaired.

And if he was not in pain, she could ensure that he was.

The prospect of such vengeance made Madeline smile despite herself. She knew she could never injure Rhys, so much larger and stronger was he. Still, she could have a word with him. It would not do for him to drink with such gusto with any frequency.

She peered after the wagon, which was well and truly gone, then made to stride down to the road.

But when she turned, Rhys was racing up the hill toward her, looking no more besotted than she.

“We ride!” he declared even as she gaped at him. He pointed across the road. “There is a path that cuts through the hills and joins the road you spoke of...”

“But you are not drunk!”

“Of course not.” Rhys’ glance was scathing. “Only a man of no merit whatsoever drinks himself to a stupor this early in the day. What manner of men are your brothers?”

That they should agree so vehemently on this matter was somewhat astonishing. Rhys did not wait for a reply, which was fortuitous as Madeline could not summon a word to her lips.

“I feigned drunkenness to be ignored. A drunken mercenary is not remembered, my lady, not even by the ale-maker who takes the drunkard’s coin.”

His thinking made splendid sense. “You feign such a state so well that I was fooled,” Madeline said. “Should I fret that it is your own extensive practice that grants you such skill?”

Rhys’ grin flashed. “I have eyes in my head, no more than that.” He lashed the bag he carried behind his saddle. “I have brought food, but we shall have to eat later.” He fitted his hands around Madeline’s waist to lift her into her saddle and froze at the changed shape of her belly.

His grip tightened around her and he did not lift her higher, holding her so that their gazes were level. “You conceive with uncommon haste, my lady.”

Then he smiled a wolfish smile, one that set a thousand stars dancing in his eyes and awakened a fearsome tingle in Madeline’s belly. She was very aware of the heat of his chest fairly against her breasts, of their breath mingling between them, of his resolute grip upon her waist.

Madeline found herself flushing furiously. “I meant to follow you. I was concerned that you took so long, and it seemed good sense to disguise myself...”

Madeline could not finish her explanation, for Rhys kissed her with an enthusiasm that made her forget her own thoughts. Her hands found their own way around his neck, and he caught her close against his heat. They kissed hungrily and she knew that she was not the sole one relieved by his safe return.

“I like it well that you fret for me, anwylaf,” he whispered when he finally raised his head. “But I do not mean to die just yet.”

“And how bold is a man who believes that choice is his alone?” Madeline demanded sternly, unsettled by the happy gallop of her heart in this man’s presence.

Rhys held her gaze for a heady moment, as if he might make some sweet confession. Madeline held her breath, until Rhys shook his head and turned, leading their steeds back to the road. His manner was watchful and silent once more, and Madeline did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he had said no more.

He was safe by her side, and for the moment, that would suffice.

Chapter Ten

Madeline and Rhys spent precious hours winding a path back and forth around Moffat, trying to ensure that their destination appeared to be Carlisle when it was not. Rhys wanted to ensure that many souls saw them upon that road, and only when he was satisfied that there had been enough witnesses did he take to the concealed track that the farmer had mentioned.

“How do you know that he will not tell another what he told you?” Madeline demanded.

“He was drunken enough that he will be asleep himself by the time any other party catches up with him,” Rhys said grimly.

“And on the morrow?”

Rhys shrugged. “I doubt he will recall his own name, let alone the nameless mercenary who bought him ale.”

“How much ale did you buy for him?”

Rhys chuckled. “Enough to ensure as much, though he had an uncommon thirst.”

“You will be impoverished if you continue to waste your coin thus,” Madeline chided, having no idea how much coin Rhys possessed.

“Aye, I have dispensed a great deal of coin upon women and ale on this journey.” He cast her that beguiling smile. “Though I cannot call the expense a waste, in all fairness.”

She could not take offense, not when he looked at her thus. Indeed, her heart thumped with painful vigor beneath his smile, and she felt herself flush.

She would have to steel herself against her husband’s unexpected allure, lest she become fond of a man who had wed her solely for the fruit her womb might bear.

* * *

To Rhys’ relief, the path not only existed, but it was where the farmer had told him. It was also deserted, much as the one Kerr had taken across the moors. Ever cautious, Rhys only chose to halt after they were a goodly distance from Moffat. They dismounted in a small clearing that would be out of clear sight of a rider.

Madeline looked about herself. “You chose this place because you can see the path.”

“Without being readily seen ourselves,” Rhys agreed, appreciative of her perceptiveness. He laid out the results of his excursion, apologetic that there was so little. A noblewoman would be accustomed to finer fare than he could offer, not only on this day. “Apples and cheese, bread and ale. There was little other than that, as it was not market day.”

Madeline, however, seemed untroubled by the simple repast. “How long must it last?”

“Perhaps until Glasgow. Perhaps we shall risk another town before then.”

“But you would prefer not to be seen,” Madeline concluded, no censure in her town. She divided the food with quick efficiency, granting him a measure more than herself and putting a good bit back in the sack. “The bread will be hard by the morrow, so we shall eat it today, half now and half this evening. Be sparing with the cheese, for it will keep a good while with that good rind upon it. We shall each have an apple or two at each meal, at least until they are gone.”

As he stared at her, impressed by her pragmatism, she gave an elaborate shrug. “And the ale is clearly for me, as you must have had your fill of it already this day.” She granted him a glance of such mischief that he was tempted to forget the meal in favor of continuing their efforts to conceive a son.

Madeline must have guessed the direction of his thoughts, for she flushed scarlet, then sat down and busied herself with the meal. Her hands shook slightly and Rhys hesitated before joining her.

“Are you so afraid of me as that?” he asked.

She glanced up, her gaze clear. “Are you a traitor?”

“That depends upon who is asked.”

She frowned. “That is not an answer.”

Rhys shed his tabard and turned it around again, so that the red dragon of Wales was clearly emblazoned again upon his chest.

Madeline watched with interest. “There were those at Ravensmuir who said you tempted Fate by wearing that insignia so openly. Why?”

Rhys sat down beside her and bit into an apple as he considered where to begin. “Eons past, there was a king of Wales who decided to build his court upon a hill in Gwynedd.”

“Where is Gwynedd?”

“It is the ancient heart of Wales, the territory within which one finds Eryri, the mountain known as Snowdonia in English. It is there that the oldest seat of Welsh authority lies, the hill of Dinas Emrys, and it was upon this hill that King Gwrtheyrn vowed to build his hall.”

Rhys bit into his apple with vigor, taking his time with the tale. “But something was amiss, for each night whatsoever had been constructed that day disappeared before the sun rose again. The stones were swallowed by the earth, so fully did they disappear, and the king was vexed that so little progress was made.”

Madeline listened, rapt. Her hands stilled over the bread.

“And so it was that the king called for a seer to tell him what had gone awry. He summoned Myrddin, a young sorcerer who would be known by the English as Merlin, who conjured a dream. After his dreaming, Myrddin counseled the king to dig beneath the hill, to dig until he found a lake. And beside that lake would be a tent, and within that tent would be two dragons, one red and one white. And so it was done, upon the bidding of the sorcerer’s dream.”

“And what did they find?”

“It was as Myrddin had predicted, but as the king and his men watched, the dragons awakened. The pair fought a vicious battle, through the tent and into the lake, then disappeared. And Myrddin said that it will always be thus, that this pair would battle again and again for all eternity. He said that the white dragon was England and the red was Cymru -”

“Cymru?”

“Wales.” Rhys chewed his apple and stared over the hills, savoring that Madeline’s attention did not waver. “And he counseled the king to build his abode elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“So long as Dinas Emrys remains a wooded hill, the red dragon lives on, to wage war against the white. So long as the hill is unfettered, the red dragon will do battle.” Rhys met Madeline’s gaze, letting her see his determination. “He will fight to his dying breath, each and every night for all eternity if need be, until the red dragon is ultimately triumphant over the white.”

They stared at each other for a potent moment, and Rhys recalled the silk of her skin beneath his hand, the way she gasped when she found her pleasure. Desire stirred within him and he thought of bedding her here, upon this cloth, without regard to whosoever pursued them.

He was startled by the appeal of the notion, a notion that could result in his own demise. What power had this woman over him? And how had she conjured it in so few days? Rhys had the wits to be afraid.

Madeline looked down at the bread in her hands, breaking the heated gaze that had bound them together. “You can tell a tale, husband.”

“I am Welsh,” Rhys said and looked away from the temptation she offered.

She cleared her throat. “No wonder your insignia was thought to be provocative.”

Rhys considered this for a moment. “My insignia declares me to be who I am, which is the task of an insignia. I am not the manner of man to pretend that I am other than I am.”

“Except in Moffat.”

He smiled at that and let her think what she would. There was more to consider than his own sorry hide, at least until they reached Caerwyn.

“Will you tell me why the king charged you with treason?”

“Nay,” Rhys said firmly. He took another apple and bit into it, noting that she was irked with him again. To be sure, the lady was bewitching when her eyes flashed with such vigor. He stared at the road and willed the enthusiasm in his chausses to abandon him.

“Then I shall have to learn the tale from someone else,” she said tartly. “You may be certain that there are others who know about the charges against you, Rhys, and they may not be so interested in granting you a fair hearing as you might be.”

“Then you should not seek the tale from others,” he said, determined to end her curiosity. “It is not comely for a lady to seek gossip, after all.” Madeline gasped in indignation but before she could make another demand, he made one of his own. “What of this man who captured your heart? Do you mean to tell me of him?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “James?”

“If that was his name.” Rhys shrugged, trying to give the impression that he was less interested than he knew himself to be. “Your betrothed, who died.”

“James.” Her lips tightened and she sighed, looking suddenly despondent. She seemed both intent upon cutting her apple with her knife and disinterested in whatsoever she did.

Rhys stretched out in the grass, much happier asking questions than answering them. He watched Madeline, seeking the answers she would not express in words. “What manner of man was he?”

She sighed and a sweet smile touched her lips. That such a smile had nothing to do with him—and never would—tore Rhys’ heart with surprising force.

“James was a kind and gentle man. He was filled with such goodness, and he could sing as if he were an angel.”

Rhys snorted. “Then they shall be glad of him in their chorus.”

Madeline glared at him. “James was a well-mannered and elegant man. He was good and kind and gentle and...”

“Your point being that I am as unlike James as ever a man could be.”

Her gaze swept over him, and she sniffed. “I would never be so rude as to say as much.” Madeline turned her attention to her apple again, twin spots of color burning in her cheeks. “He could play the lute with such skill.”

“The lute?” Rhys straightened. “He was a musician?”

Madeline nodded, oblivious to how avid Rhys had become. “He wrote some verse and sang many more composed by others. He played the lute with great cunning.”

A poet and lutenist! Rhys looked away, alarmed as he seldom was. The apple was as sawdust in his mouth, for he guessed well enough who the musician was who traveled with Rosamunde, why that party had pursued him from Ravensmuir and what they wanted with him.

How perfect for Rosamunde that she could readily condemn Rhys, and thus ensure that Madeline was widowed. And Madeline could wed the man she vowed to love.

Rhys cast the core into the undergrowth with force, not caring that he had not finished the flesh, and realized that Madeline watched him warily.

He struggled to keep his tone idle, though his interest in his wife’s answer was far from idle. “Did you kiss James as you kiss me?” He heard that his effort failed, that he sounded as if he sought an argument.

He found one.

Madeline’s glance was positively lethal. “James was too much of a nobleman to force his embrace upon me.”

Rhys recalled all too well that she had called him a barbarian. And no wonder, for bards were men of considerable abilities. They were marked for their destiny early, they were granted the best schooling, they were clever and talented and the most exalted men in Welsh society. No wonder she found Rhys a poor substitute for this James. He would have to remember not to sing in her presence, lest that comparison serve him poorly as well.

“Which means that you did not.” Rhys pushed to his feet, disturbed beyond expectation by the impressive credentials of this lost suitor. “So, how did he die? Did he argue a case that he could not win, and thus meet the anger of the losing side?”

Madeline looked up, her bewilderment clear. “I do not understand.”

Rhys spoke roughly in his annoyance. “You said he was a poet and a musician, so he must have also been a lawyer. The best poets are lawyers, as well. Do you tell me that he was incompetent as a musician?”

She laughed, the sound bursting from her lips in her surprise. “What madness is this? Poets as lawyers! Surely you jest?”

“Surely I do not!” Her attitude irked Rhys as little else could have done. “It requires eloquence to argue a legal case, and the ability to cast a spell over one’s audience. A lawyer is an orator, as is a poet. Any person of sense can see the connection.” Madeline blinked, but Rhys could not halt himself. “Bards are well accustomed to remembering long passages of verse, not dissimilar to remembering passages of law. And poets, finally, are clever beyond belief, for they must not only master the ancient twenty-four meters of rhyming verse, but be able to make such compositions as they sing.”

“I did not realize...”

Rhys shoved a hand through his hair, agitated by his competitor’s skills, no less that Madeline did not appear to appreciate them. How galling that he had to explain the other man’s copious talents! “Few realize the complexity of the metered verse. In Welsh, we call such harmony cynghanedd and it is not easily learned. The syllables must be of the same number within each line of the verse, and each word of each line must begin with the same sound, and the first word of each line must ally with first words in all the other lines, and the last consonant of each line must allude to the first word of the next!” Rhys flung out his hands and roared. “It is not a pursuit for the simple of intellect, I assure you!”

Madeline simply stared at him, so great was her astonishment.

Rhys exhaled heavily and forced his voice to return to its usual timbre. “Thus, in my uncle’s court, the poet who possessed such fearsome abilities was also the man who knew and argued the law.”

“I have never heard the like of that.” Madeline heaved a sigh in her turn. “James simply could pluck a pretty tune.”

Rhys gaped at her. “He could not compose in meter?”

She shook her head.

“Are you certain that he simply did not burden you with the fullness of his abilities?”

Madeline chuckled. “I am certain. He was almost untutored, for his father had no interest in music. He composed little himself and I heartily doubt that he knew near as much of law as you expect. His charm lay in other traits.” She smiled at Rhys with bemusement as she peeled an apple with her knife. “You Welshmen are a whimsical lot indeed. Poets as lawyers!”

Though Rhys was relieved that James was not as formidable a foe as he had feared, his mood was not improved by Madeline responding to good sense as if he were mad. He glared at her. “So, how did this esteemed musician of so few talents die? Did he cut his white fingers upon lute strings drawn too taut?”

Madeline cast aside the skin of her apple with annoyance. “His father fairly had him killed.”

“Then perhaps this James was not so kind and gentle of a man, if he so enraged his father. Perhaps he was not so clever as you believe.”

“His father was not enraged,” Madeline asserted with force. “He was simply blind to the manner of man his son was. I told you that he had no interest in music or its merit. He dispatched James to the war in France, despite James’ protests.”

“Why did this James not defy his father? It can be done.” Rhys considered his piece of bread and decided to risk provoking her again. “Unless, of course, one does not want to threaten one’s inheritance.”

“Oh! You are quick to cast aspersions on those you have not known!” Madeline’s eyes flashed. “His father was cruel and unfair! He had James imprisoned in their own keep until James agreed to go to war. And then he sent James with his own warriors, with the command that they were to ensure that James served his father’s interests well in France. He ensured that James could not escape, that he had to fight. And so James died. It was wicked and utterly unfitting for a father to treat his son in such a manner.”

“He was killed in battle?”

Madeline nodded once. “James was not a man wrought for war. His father should never have sent him to France when he did!”

“You speak aright,” Rhys acknowledged. “Had he been a good father, he would have sent him to war sooner.”

Madeline dropped knife and apple, outrage taking her to her feet. “What madness is this? No decent father would see his son killed for no good reason!”

Rhys was fascinated by the sight of his wife. She was so impassioned, so determined to defend a man who could not have been a fitting match for her fiery nature.

As he was. He rose to his feet in turn, unafraid to grant her a measure of the honesty she so admired.

“Your betrothed died because he had not been prepared for what he had to do,” Rhys asserted. “All men must fight one day for what they would call their own, and it is a father’s duty to ensure that his sons are prepared for that duty. By granting your James his freedom from war for so long as he did, the father might as well have driven his own blade into his son’s chest.”

“But not all men are suited to war!”

“True enough. Some serve better as priests and monks.” Rhys watched for her response, knowing there would be one. “But that choice would scarcely have ensured the survival of James as your spouse.”

A ruby flush rose from Madeline’s throat to suffuse her face. Her eyes gleamed angrily, their vivid hue akin to lightning, and her words were low and hot. “You go too far in this. You did not even know James, you never heard the magic he could wring from a lute, and you have no right to despoil my memories of him.”

But Rhys was angry now, and he was fearful of Rosamunde’s intent. It seemed suddenly critical that Madeline face the truth that this James was an unsuitable match for her. “I shall wager that you wished to wed your betrothed afore his departure to France,” he said curtly. He rose and gathered together the remnants of their meal. “But your father forbade it.”

All the color abandoned Madeline’s cheeks as she gaped at him. Her voice was almost inaudible. “How could you know this?”

Rhys barely glanced at her, so irked was he that she failed to show her good sense in a matter of such import. “Because your father knew James, obviously, and must have known the truth of James’ lack of military ability. No man would willingly wed his daughter to a man who might not be able to ensure her safety. Your father undoubtedly reasoned that James would either die in France, or he would prove himself to be more of a warrior than he had been thus far.”

Rhys shrugged. “You were better wedding him after that truth was known or not wedding him at all. Your father fulfilled his responsibility to you, as I will fulfill mine to our daughters, should we be blessed with any.”

With that, Rhys began to pack their meal away with savage gestures. Madeline said nothing at all, though he could feel her dismayed gaze upon him. He had not meant to wound her heart, though he had no doubt he had done so. He would not, however, have the repute of the great saintly James thrust upon him each time he faltered in his wife’s expectations.

Especially as that man was very likely in pursuit of them. He might not be able to avoid the prospect of Madeline choosing between them, but he would do his best to ensure that she had no illusions if ever she did so.

He glanced back to find her pulling the bundled cloth from beneath her kirtle, her tears falling with such vigor that he felt a knave. She had loved this fool James, and he should not fault her for that.

“Leave it, Madeline,” he said softly. “Your scheme is a good one.”

She halted and stared at him, her face streaked with tears. “I love James and that will never change.”

“I understand.” Rhys was contrite, for he had spoken too harshly to her. “I shall not speak of him again, out of respect for you. Indeed, I apologize that my temper was lost so much as it was.”

“I will never love another,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Rhys nodded once and turned away, understanding what she was telling him. There was a hollowness within him, a regret that Madeline could not offer him all that she had offered James, but Rhys was accustomed to making do with the remnants of others.

He saddled the horses, then offered her his hand. “Come, my lady. It is time to ride again.”

* * *

Rhys FitzHenry had no heart at all. Madeline was wed to a man who did not care that she would never love him. She decided that this revelation was not so surprising, after all. Was there not a saying that a woman wed once for duty and thence for love? She supposed she would have to survive Rhys to have a chance of such love in her second marriage.

It seemed a thin prospect. They rode onward in grim silence, only the calls of birds and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth carrying to Madeline’s ears.

At least they were not being pursued.

And the weather was not as bad as it might have been.

That seemed a sorry list of Fortune’s favor, but there was no changing it. Madeline watched Rhys and wondered about his hidden thoughts.

The man had no shortage of them, it was clear.

Sadly, his indifference to love was evident. Such tender feelings must not be of any import to a man of war such as himself. She had seen the glow in his eyes when he spoke of Caerwyn, and guessed that he loved that keep. Though she knew that she should not have been surprised that he cared only for property, she was deeply disappointed.

Perhaps it was time that she prodded more of his carefully kept secrets into the open. She had precious little to lose.

Madeline eyed her spouse, noting that he was more grim than usual, and urged her steed slightly closer to his. Rhys barely spared her a glance, his own gaze darting restlessly over the shadowed greenery on their every side. It was falling dark, a triumphant smear of pink staining the indigo of the western skies.

“Who do you know in Glasgow?” Madeline asked.

If anything, Rhys grew more grim. “It is of no import.”

Madeline had not expected an easy confession from him. Indeed, she could be as stubborn as he was and it was time he confronted the truth of it. “How do you know of any soul in Glasgow? That town is far indeed from Wales.”

“It is of no import.” Rhys led his destrier from the path and cut a course through the forest, making it impossible for Madeline to continue their conversation. She waited, albeit impatiently, until he halted in small clearing by a stream. He dismounted, moving with confidence in the shadows, then aided her to dismount.

“Do you simply make a visit, or do you expect aid from this friend in Glasgow?” Madeline asked, keeping her tone deliberately bright. She won a hard look for her trouble, but lifted a finger before he could speak. “I think this is of import.”

Rhys shrugged. “And I do not.” He unfastened his saddlebag, removed something, and strode into the woods. Gelert darted after Rhys, his tail waving like a bedraggled banner in his excitement.

With half a dozen steps, he was gone. Half a dozen more and she could not even hear him.

He had effectively abandoned Madeline to her own questions. Madeline shouted after her spouse, to no avail, and the sounds of the forest closed around her. The horses bent their heads to graze, swishing their tails and amiably bumping alongside each other.

The man had the manners of a boar! Madeline shouted again, not truly expecting any reply. She did not receive one.

Cur! Knave and ruffian! Rhys FitzHenry had the worst manners of any man who ever she had had the misfortune to meet. He yearned for a son, did he? Oh, he could count himself fortunate indeed if ever he found himself between her thighs again. He was welcome to keep a hundred whores, given his attitude.

What manner of man left a woman alone in the forest at night? No man of merit, that was for certain!

Madeline grit her teeth, then unfastened the saddlebags, casting them to the forest floor. He had no squire, so she must perform the duties of one, or see the steeds suffer.

Wretched man. She unfurled the two blankets she found within Rhys’ bag. She could only manage to remove the palfrey’s saddle, for that of the destrier was not only too large, but the beast itself stood too tall. She dropped the reins over the horses’ heads and let them graze, then found the horse brush in one bag.

Indeed, what need of Rhys of a squire when he had a wife? She brushed down the two horses with vigor, for it was not their fault that their master was a selfish cur. There was no merit in letting them fall ill from the chill of their own sweat.

Madeline soundly cursed her husband’s irresponsibility as she worked. Once she was done, she set to gathering wood for a fire. She supposed that the presence of his destrier indicated that Rhys would return, though she would not have wagered her last denier upon it. She also would not rely upon his provision of a meal for both of them whenever he did return. For all she knew, he might have sniffed the ale of an inn in the distance, and hied himself off to warmth and a good meal.

If he thought she would let herself freeze to death, or sulk at his absence, he was sorely mistaken. Fortunately, there was a good bit of dry kindling to be found. It must not have rained as diligently in these parts as it had further east.

As her anger ran its course and faded, Madeline’s fear began to grow. She kept herself busy, painfully aware that she had never been alone in the forest before. She was accustomed to the security of high walls at night, and she recalled all too readily the tales of ravenous wolves that she had so often heard.

She fed the fire to a tremendous blaze, hoping to dissuade any predators from coming close. Despite her efforts, night fell and a wolf howled in the distance. To her dismay, another answered from the other direction. They sounded close to her inexperienced ears, too close. Even the horses eased closer to each other, their ears flicking.

Madeline told herself to ignore the gleam of watchful eyes in the forest around her—surely the sight of them was no more than her imagination. She wrapped her cloak tightly about herself, cursed her spouse once more, then sat and took a bite out of an apple. She would eat a meal, then she would sleep.

Or at least she would try to do so.

“I had thought you would desire a hot meal on this night,” Rhys said with humor.

As usual, the man reappeared at sudden proximity, only his words revealing his presence. When Madeline pivoted to face him, she found him standing in the shadows, the dog fast by his side. He held a trio of fish aloft, as if that and his smile could compensate for his abrupt departure. The confidence in his manner was the last vexation that she needed on this night to lose her temper in truth.

“You faithless wretch!” Madeline cried, more relieved by the sight of Rhys than she cared to admit. She cast her apple at her spouse with all the force she could muster, hoping only that the resulting bruise was large and lasting.

Chapter Eleven

To survive three teasing brothers, Madeline had learned to aim and throw, and she had learned to do it well.

The apple hit Rhys square in the nose, so astonished was he by her assault. He yelped and jumped backward, dropping one fish, then cursing as he searched for it in the leaves.

The apple meanwhile hit the ground and bounced. Gelert darted after it, tail wagging with delight when the apple was discovered. The dog trotted to Madeline, uncommonly proud of itself, apple held high, then laid at her feet to eat its prize.

Rhys was not so happy. He regarded Madeline warily as he came closer, still shaking dried leaves from the retrieved fish. “You are annoyed,” he said, as if her response was inexplicable.

“What splendid fortune to be wed to a perceptive man.”

“Where did you think I had gone?”

“Perhaps to hell.” Madeline folded her arms across her chest, intrigued despite her annoyance at his manner. Did Rhys truly not understand that she had been afraid?

His gaze slipped over her features and she knew he missed no detail. “You cannot have thought that I had abandoned you,” he said, as evidently the prospect occurred to him.

“What else was I to think?” Madeline spun to tend to the fire, fairly hearing Rhys think as he watched her.

“I take care of what is mine own,” he said.

Madeline snorted. “How welcome it is to know that you count me among your possessions. Like your saddle, or your knife. Perhaps your hound.” She jabbed a stick into the fire. “There is a sentiment to warm a woman’s heart.”

She heard his steps just afore he seized her elbow and spun her to meet the fire in his eyes. “You make accusations without cause! There is a river. Can you not hear it?” He shook his head in irritation. “Could you not guess that I would provide a hot meal for us? You had to know that I would return.”

“I knew no such thing.”

“Then why did you build a fire?” He spared it a disapproving glance. “No less one as big as a pyre. Those who hunt us will find us without effort, if this continues to burn so high.”

That he should criticize her resourcefulness in this moment was too much.

“Then, perhaps they will find their prey roasted upon it!” Madeline kicked some of the wood out of the bonfire while Rhys regarded her with astonishment, then stamped upon the burning faggots.

By the time she was done, the fire was much smaller, as was her irritation with Rhys. All the same, she spun to confront him and propped her hands upon her hips. “Does that suit you better, husband? You should leave more precise instructions in future, that I might do your bidding fully!”

The air fairly crackled between them, then Rhys shook his head. “Surely you cannot have been afraid,” he said, frowning as he gutted the fish with decisive gestures. “You are too intrepid a woman to be fearful of shadows.”

“It was the wolves and their appetites I feared, not the darkness.”

Another one howled, as if to emphasize her argument. Rhys cocked a head to listen. “They are not coming closer,” he said with a confidence Madeline did not feel.

“All the same, I will not sleep this night.”

He spared her a piercing glance. “Have you ever spent a night outside of a fortress walls?”

“Only once,” Madeline admitted tightly. “A few nights past.”

She thought at first that Rhys had not heard her, for he made no acknowledgement of her words. He methodically impaled the cleaned fish upon sticks that he must have peeled and sharpened while he waited for the fish to take his lure. He drove the sticks into the ground so that they made a tripod and ensured that the fish were angled over the flames.

Only then did he apparently take note of her. “Will you watch that they do not burn? You can turn them readily, like this.” Rhys spun one stick to demonstrate and Madeline nodded grudgingly. He inclined his head so that she could see the twinkle in his eyes and for a moment she feared that he would mock her.

Instead Rhys spoke gently. “I vow to return, after I leave word for the wolves to let my lady to slumber in peace this night.”

He strode away and Madeline could not at first guess what he would do. She saw his shadow slide behind one tree and heard the splatter of liquid falling, and then she guessed.

Rhys left a message for the wolves in a manner they would understand. He marked the perimeter of their camp with his urine, as wolves marked their territory.

And he did so to reassure her. How could she stay angry with a man of such rough charm? Her brothers would never have done such a deed to reassure her—they would have simply teased her until she dared not express her fear any longer.

Once again, Rhys had surprised her.

Madeline blinked back unexpected tears and paid undue attention to the fish. She heard the rustle of Rhys’ footsteps as he moved all around the circle of their camp, pausing to leave a missive for the wolves every few feet.

There was a pause, then she heard him splashing in the river that she had not noted earlier. Truly, she was not accustomed to heeding the sounds of the forest, for the river’s flow was readily discernible now that she listened for it.

And her heart wrung again with the realization of what Rhys did. This exasperating man washed afore he shared a meal with her, as if he meant to show his bride that his manners were not entirely coarse. Madeline would never have expected him to be so concerned for her fears and expectations.

But he was. Though he was not accustomed to sharing his every thought, though he did not always understand or anticipate her concerns, the man had made efforts to make their match a successful one. She owed him more than sniping better suited to an alewife. She watched the fish diligently, her empty stomach beginning to growl in complaint at the tempting smell of the roasting fish.

Rhys returned with his hair wet and his tabard in his hands, his chemise untucked and clinging to his damp skin. Madeline could see the outline of his muscled chest through the wet cloth, and the dark tangle of hair upon his chest. Her mouth went dry, her appetite kindled for something other than roasted fish. Rhys shook the water out of his hair as he drew near to the fire, then checked the fish with an experienced eye.

“They will go well with that bread,” was all he said but his tone was amiable. Madeline understood that he wanted their argument behind them.

So did she, so she offered him a tentative smile. “You should stay near the fire, until you are dry. Let me fetch the bread.”

He glanced at her smile, blinked, then frowned at the fish. “I did not mean to frighten you, but I confess that I think poorly with an empty belly.”

Madeline nodded at his apology. “I understand that now. I apologize for my anger.”

His frown deepened. “It was not undeserved. I am not accustomed to riding with another person, let alone with a noblewoman.”

“Or a wife?”

He smiled then, that smile that melted all her reservations. “Or a wife, anwylaf.”

Perhaps they could make a good match out of this poor beginning. Perhaps their marriage was not fated to be merely endured. A son in her womb would resolve much of what stood between them.

Madeline dared to hope.

“It seems that we slowly come to understand each other, Rhys,” she said, brushing her fingertips across his arm. He impaled her with a glance that she used his name, and that dangerous heat within her was coaxed to a flame. She did not look away as her mouth went dry, nor did he.

Then the fish began to smoke.

* * *

Rhys shouted in dismay and Madeline hastened to fetch the bread. She held a slice of bread while Rhys removed each fish from the stake. He deftly removed its head and skin, leaving a steaming fillet upon each piece of bread.

“Ah, for a measure of salt,” he said wistfully as they sat down by the fire, then granted Madeline an unexpected wink.

She sat, feeling all a-shiver in his presence, thinking of sons and their conceptions, and ate her meal. The fish was delicious, the warmth of the fire a delight. It was not all bad to be alone in the woods like this, night pressing against them on all sides, not now that Rhys sat beside her. The horses dozed, their tails swishing, and Gelert kept a keen watch over the camp.

Rhys cleared his throat. “I owe you a boon, my lady, for it was not my intent to frighten you.”

Madeline regarded him with interest. It was unlike Rhys to offer any concession. “No doubt you will name what manner of boon it must be.”

A crooked smile touched his lips. “What if I offer you a tale?”

“A tale of fancy, or one of your own history?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you would die before you confessed a morsel of your own history to me,” Madeline said, much fortified by a warm meal in her belly. “But I shall risk the asking.”

“God save me from this fearless woman I have taken to wife,” Rhys muttered, though his tone was warm.

Madeline chuckled, then licked the last of the fish from her fingers. “One must make the most of such a rare offer from you,” she teased and Rhys chuckled in his turn. She liked the twinkle in his eyes, the way he looked when he teased her, and that alone tempted her to ask what she really desired to know. “Who betrayed you?”

Rhys froze then, his gaze rising slowly to meet her own. Madeline did not blink, nor did she look away. His eyes were dark, his expression unfathomable, but he hesitated so that she thought he might answer her.

Then he shook his head and turned his attention back to his meal. “You do not know that anyone betrayed me.”

“I would wager it.”

“You have nothing with which to wager.”

“You offered me the boon of a tale.”

A muscle working in his throat and his voice dropped low. “Not that one, Madeline.”

She knew him well enough not to push on this matter. “Then tell me of Caerwyn.”

His quick glance was piercing. “Why?”

“Because you love it.”

“All love it. You shall see it when we arrive there.”

Madeline gathered her rapidly diminishing patience with an effort. “My aunt Rosamunde seemed to know you.” She wondered whether she imagined that Rhys stiffened at these words. “Does she?”

“Aye.” He would not meet her gaze.

“How?”

Rhys shrugged. “It is a long tale.”

Madeline grit her teeth. The boon he offered was not one he would fulfill readily, it was clear! “She said that I should not judge a man by his appearance, or even by his repute. Thomas said much the same thing of you. What do they know of you that I do not?”

“Who can say?” Rhys said. “You should ask them.”

“I am not likely to have the opportunity to do so for quite some time!”

He almost smiled. “I doubt you will forget your query, no matter how much time elapses.” And he helped himself to another piece of bread.

“Is it your intent to be the most vexing man in Christendom, or do you have an innate talent for keeping your secrets to yourself? I am certain that I have never had so strong an urge to injure another living being as I have had since meeting you!”

Rhys smiled fully then, the expression driving the shadows from his eyes. “Evasiveness is learned talent, but one I possess to be sure.” He finished his own meal and stretched out upon his cloak. He crossed his booted ankles and leaned his weight upon his elbow as he regarded her warmly. His eyes twinkled in a most beguiling way. “No more questions?”

“What would be the merit?”

“Surely you cannot mean to surrender your boon as readily as that? I thought you a woman of some persistence.”

Madeline glanced about herself, not knowing what to ask him that he might deign to answer. The hound rose, shook itself, then fairly pounced upon the discarded skins of the fishes. “Why did you name the dog Gelert?”

Rhys sighed, his gaze landing upon the dog. “It is a name from an old tale, one of which I am fond.”

“Tell me of it.” To Madeline’s relief, Rhys did not argue.

He snapped his fingers and the dog came to his side. He scratched its ears, the dog’s delight making both man and wife smile. “It is said that long ago, there was a knight. He had a castle to his name, as well as a village and some land. Because he had only his steed, his armor and his faithful hound, Gelert, to keep him company, he decided to find a wife. He met a noblewoman who found him as pleasing as he found her, and they were wedded. In time, they had a son.”

“Only the hound has a name in this tale?”

Rhys smiled fully, even as he scratched his own dog’s ears. “Only the hound is of import in this tale.” He smiled at her and Madeline had difficulty thinking clearly. The similarity between this tale and their own was evident, after all. It was easy enough to recall how Rhys’ flesh had felt against her own, no less to yearn for his caress again.

They did not, after all, have a son as yet.

“And so, what happened next?” she managed to ask.

“They found a nursemaid to care for the child. When the babe was still in swaddling, the parents went out to hunt, leaving the nursemaid with the care of the child. It was perhaps the first time that the mother had left her infant son. The dog remained beside the child, so diligently did it guard whatsoever its master held dear.”

“There is a hound worth the having. It knew the difference between mere possessions and what a man holds dear.”

Rhys flicked a glance at Madeline, but continued his tale without further comment. “While the maid slept that afternoon, an enormous snake slithered into the nursery. It had a thousand teeth and was a hundred ells long; its scales were red and black and green, and its eyes were yellow. It was an ancient snake, one which fed solely upon children, and it made its slithering path directly toward the knight’s only son.”

Madeline’s fingers knotted together in her skirt, even as Rhys’ own fingers moved in Gelert’s fur.

“The faithful dog attacked the snake, though the wicked beast was far larger and more vicious than the hound. The two battled over which should claim the child. The hound was bitten terribly by the snake, and though the dog fought with all its vigor, the loss of blood weakened it sorely. It sank his teeth into the snake, in a last bid to save the child, but the snake hit the hound with a mighty thump of its tail. The hound was dazed long enough for the snake to achieve its desire. The snake devoured the child whole, who screamed to no avail as he met his demise.”

“How horrible a tale,” Madeline whispered.

“It becomes worse. For the maid was roused from sleep by the screams of the child. She ran into the chamber, but arrived after the snake had disappeared back to its hiding place. She saw only the blood of the child upon the linens, and the blood of the snake upon the jowls of the hound, Gelert. She assumed that all the blood was from the same small body, and she screamed that the hound had murdered its master’s son.”

“Oh!”

“The knight returned from the hunt shortly thereafter, and was told of events. His wife was devastated, while he was furious. He called his hound, which came to him willingly for the beast knew that it had done no wrong. And the knight pulled his sword and killed his own hound with a single stroke. He struck the head from his loyal dog with his own blade in his own hand, he saw justice served for the crime he believed his dog had done.”

“Oh no,” Madeline whispered.

“And his wife wept, inconsolable at the loss of her son.” Rhys licked his lips, his gaze upon his own hound, which stared at him adoringly. This tale seemed to Madeline to be a terrible reason to give a hound such a name. She had no chance to speak before Rhys continued, his words so melodic that the tale seemed to cast a spell.

“But there was a peasant in the bailey, a woman who had come to beg the knight’s charity on the day that he was at hunt and who had chosen to await his return. She had seen the snake slither from the window of the nursery, she had seen it disappear into a hole in the wall of the cellar. She had witnessed the knight’s return and the anguish that ensued. It was only when she heard the tale of what had happened, that she wondered about the snake. She had her audience with the knight, and instead of making her plea, she told him of what she had glimpsed. He immediately sent men to seek out this uncommon snake.”

Madeline shivered and it seemed that the night pressed closer. Rhys rose and put some more wood on the fire. He squatted on the far side of the fire and stared into the flames. The light danced through the linen of his chemise, painting his chest with golden light, and she yearned to run her hands across his warm skin once again.

Then he spoke, even as he seemed fascinated by the fire. “They found the beast sleeping in the cellar, where it had hidden for years between the cobbles and the casks, and they were afraid of its unholy size even while it slumbered. But the knight and his men attacked it all the same, and they cut off its head, though it took three strokes from three different blades to break the snake’s unholy armor. It was then, as the blood of the snake stained their boots, that they heard a babe crying.”

“Oh!” Madeline raised her clasped hands to her lips. Rhys cast her a smile and came to sit beside her, capturing her clasped fingers within the heat of his own. He rubbed her hands between his, kindling more than one kind of warmth within her. She could smell his skin and she tingled at his proximity.

“When the knight and his men looked within the corpse of the snake, they found the knight’s infant son, bloodied and frightened but otherwise unharmed. So, the truth of that day’s events was finally known.”

“But the hound...” Madeline whispered.

Rhys lifted a curl of her hair in his fingers, turning the tendril in the light of the fire as if it was uncommonly fascinating. Madeline held her breath.

“Aye, the hound was dead, and for no good reason. The knight despaired at what he had done,” he said softly, “for he had killed his most loyal servant unjustly and he knew the fullness of his sin.”

Madeline held his hand tightly, even as this Gelert began to snore in contentment. The hound had spread across the indentation on the cloak that Rhys had left, and had done so with undisguised contentment.

“The nursemaid, whose testimony had condemned the hound, left those lands forever and was never seen again. The knight built a shrine to the memory of Gelert with his own hands and spent his days in penance and mourning. His lands failed beneath God’s disfavor, and his keep fell to ruins, save for the shrine which was visited by one and all. Yet he did not complain, for he knew that this was the reward for his haste and faithlessness. His lady returned to her family with their son, abandoning him to his grief, but the knight served his penance tirelessly.”

Rhys sighed and entwined his fingers more tightly with those of Madeline. “And so it is told that when the knight died and faced his judgment, it was his hound, Gelert, loyal for all eternity, that he found at the very feet of God, begging clemency for his beloved master.”

Madeline wiped her tears with the hem of her kirtle, embarrassed to find her eyes wet while Rhys’ were dry. “You have a power with a tale, husband.”

“I am Welsh,” he said softly, humor touching his tone this time.

Madeline offered him an unsteady smile. “Should I be surprised that it is a tale of loyalty spurned?”

Rhys shrugged and eyed the dog, seemingly startled by her observation. Madeline reached up and touched his jaw. The stubble of his beard prickled her palm as she cupped his face in her hand, and he turned with her urging to look down at her. There were shadows lurking in his eyes, shadows she yearned to push aside.

“Who betrayed you, Rhys?” she asked without ever intending to do so. She bit her lip then, wishing she could call back the question that would only put the wall between them once again.

Rhys parted his lips, then closed them again. Madeline was certain he would deny her an answer once more, but he met her gaze abruptly, solemnly.

“My father,” he admitted, the confession hoarse.

“But I thought you were his only son.”

“I was.” Rhys bent his head and touched his lips to Madeline’s fingertips. The firelight danced in the ebony curls of his hair and he spoke into her hand, his gaze hidden from her. “But in the end, a bastard, even a bastard son who served him well, could not suffice.”

Madeline had a glimpse of the wound left by that betrayal, a fleeting sight of the hurt that Rhys hid uncommonly well. She bent and kissed his hand, wondering whether the salt upon his flesh was from his tears or her own. She eased closer to him then and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth, feeling him shiver beneath her caress.

How could she expect Rhys to understand her notions of marriage, given his own history? He had never witnessed a loving match, never been able to trust those upon whom he should have been able to rely.

There was but one solution: she would have to teach him to trust her. She would have to teach her husband the merit of a loving, monogamous match.

Madeline did not doubt that it could be done. Indeed, she sensed that Rhys longed to trust her but that he dared not do so, out of fear that what he had endured might repeat itself.

It was fortunate that she was as persistent as the man believed.

She slipped her fingers into his hair, keeping her face close to his own. She could nigh hear his heart begin to pound. “I trust you will not make the same error with this hound, after we conceive a son,” she whispered.

Rhys smiled ruefully. “There are no snakes in Caerwyn.”

“And there is not yet a babe in my belly.” She took his hands and brought them to her waist. She saw the flash of Rhys’ dark eyes and knew that she wanted to be with him this night beyond all else. She wanted his heat within her, she wanted to be surrounded by his embrace. “We have sons to conceive, Rhys. This was our wager, and I would see it kept.”

Madeline had truly read her husband’s desire aright. No sooner had she uttered her invitation than she found herself upon her back, Rhys’ heat above her, and his kiss demanding her response.

She knotted her fingers in his hair and drew him closer. She granted the response he demanded of her, and she granted it most willingly indeed.

* * *

Madeline found his secrets even when Rhys thought them well disguised. She seemed to be able peer directly into his heart, to be capable of retrieving what he would have kept from her at all costs.

And worse, Rhys did not care.

Madeline offered him honesty and loyalty that he knew he had done little to deserve. She offered herself, her passion and her wit, and he would claim each gift with gusto. He would give her sons, he would give her pleasure, he would give her a home of which she could be proud. He would defend her against all threats, with his sword and his life, if need be.

If her heart was not to be his, what she offered him already would more than suffice. It was more than any other soul had ever granted to Rhys FitzHenry and he suspected that it was more than he deserved.

He was a shameless cur, and this caress she granted him might as well have been stolen from her. It was gained by deceit, and though he knew it, Rhys did not confess the truth. He was a cur and a scoundrel—for truly, what manner of knave would accept what the lady offered without telling her that her beloved James still drew breath?

* * *

Then Madeline kissed Rhys with vigor, driving all such concern from his thoughts. She had learned quickly how pleasure abed was kindled. Her tongue dueled with his own, her hands ran over him, as if she were impatient as he. He forced himself to slow their lovemaking, to take the time to savor the taste of her. He broke their kiss and traced a path to her ear with his lips, smiling against the softness of her flesh when she whispered his name in complaint.

He stretched out beside her, one hand running over the her curves lightly as he kissed her ear. Madeline stirred restlessly, her hand landing upon the lace of his chausses.

“Patience,” Rhys counseled softly. “The reward is greater when it is approached slowly.”

In response, she turned her head and sealed her lips to his again.

Rhys claimed her busy hands and lifted them over her head, entangling his fingers with her own. Madeline stretched, arching her back as he unlaced the sides of her kirtle with his free hand. He slid his hand beneath the cloth and teased her nipples to peaks. She writhed beside him, the scent of her fairly tormenting him. He was not surprised to find the dampness gathering between her thighs, nor that she parted her legs to his questing fingers.

Still they kissed as if intent upon devouring each other, her hunger for his lips growing with every passing moment. He took pride in how he coaxed her response, took pleasure in watching her reach for her own.

There were few gifts he could give her, but he could give her this one. A flush rose over her cheeks, a trembling seized her body, and still he coaxed her onward. And when she cried out, he swallowed the sound of her release with a satisfaction of his own.

He let her catch her breath for a moment, before his fingers moved against her softness again. She gasped his name and he smiled, though he did not cease.

“Again?” she whispered, even as her body responded.

“A woman can seize pleasure repeatedly in one night, as we already know. Shall we not discover how oft it can be done?”

Madeline’s eyes sparkled and she nestled closer, her fingers falling upon the erection which strained his chausses. “What of a man?”

“Aye, that too can be done. All the same, we will pursue mine only once this night.”

Her smile warmed his heart. “Because you yet fear to hurt me.” She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, her caress fairly driving him mad. “I would not have you displeased, Rhys.”

“There is no cause to fear for that,” he grumbled, then moved his fingers against her once again.

Her second release came more quickly, though it was more vehement than the first. Her eyes glittered and her face flushed crimson, yet barely had Madeline cried out than she was pulling at his chemise.

“I can wait no longer, Rhys,” she whispered, her urgency like music to his ears. He shed his boots and chausses with haste, but halted her when she would have cast aside her kirtle.

“You will become cold,” he counseled, then slid beneath the hem. Their gazes locked and held, her lips parted as he eased himself within her heat. He bent and touched his brow to hers, willing himself to proceed slowly, even as his wife began to move beneath him.

“You are a bold wench,” he teased and she laughed.

She locked her hands around his neck and regarded him with such delight that Rhys had an idea.

“Hold fast,” he counseled, then rolled quickly to his back. Madeline gasped, though he remained buried within her, then she laughed again to find herself atop him.

She braced her hands upon his shoulders and laughed down at him, her hair in fetching disarray. “What do I do?”

“Whatsoever you desire,” he said with a smile. “I am your captive.”

Her smile turned wicked then and despite his advice, she cast off her kirtle and chemise. The light of the flames caressed her curves lovingly, gilding her like the treasure she was. Alexander had rightly called his sister a jewel, though she was worth far far more than the price Rhys had paid. He was fascinated by the sight of his wife, enthralled by the way she surveyed him, enchanted by the glimmer of mischief in her gaze.

When she began to move, he knew he would not last. He gripped her hips and watched her, fighting his body’s desire for release. She took such pleasure in the torment she granted to him that he wanted to endure it all the night long, though that was not destined to be. With every stroke, he became more taut, he felt more invincible, her web drew a little tighter around him.

Suddenly, Madeline laid upon his chest and kissed him soundly. She trailed kisses to his ear, as he had done to her, and he thought his heart would stop. Rhys caught her close, loving the press of her breasts against him, the tangle of her hair in his mouth. They moved together, in perfect concert, and he felt the deep quiver awaken within her once more.

“Rhys!” she gasped as the tumult claimed her. At the sight of her pleasure, he could restrain himself no longer. His triumphant shout echoed through the forest and Rhys did not care who heard him.

It took him long to even his breathing, even longer to calm the erratic pace of his heart. His wife’s eyes closed almost immediately, her dark lashes making crescents against her fair skin. He kissed her temple, affection swelling his heart to bursting.

“Quite definitely a son,” Madeline whispered sleepily against his throat and Rhys smiled. He wrapped her protectively in her cloak, then rose to kick out the flames. He dressed while he watched her in the ember’s glow, then rejoined her in their makeshift bed. He evicted the hound, then pulled his own cloak over himself and Madeline, cradling her against his chest for the night.

Only then did he sleep, the warmth of his wife curled against him, and truly, he was content.

Chapter Twelve

Madeline awakened to find Rhys’ gloved finger against her lips and his lips against her ear. Her eyes flew open and she realized that he had braced his weight upon his elbows over her, shielding her from some threat. He was dressed and wide awake, his watchful gaze flitting across the camp. Gelert was alert, as well, and a faint growl escaped the hound’s chest.

Rhys whispered a single command which must have been in Welsh and the dog fell silent. The hair still stood on the back of the hound’s neck, though, and the creature was nigh as watchful as Rhys.

It was only then that Madeline heard the sound of hoof beats echoing through the forest. They were distant but drawing closer, the pace of the horses indicating that they trod the path she and Rhys had followed the day before.

“Destriers,” she murmured, knowing the sound of heavy warhorses.

Rhys nodded. “Three.”

Madeline listened carefully and realized that the steeds came from the direction of Moffat. It must be their pursuers!

But if so, they had split forces, for there had been six destriers the day before. Madeline bit her lip, not wanting to consider what would happen to Rhys if they were captured. She struggled to recall what she knew of the road to Glasgow ahead, for her father and uncle had spoken often of such matters.

It proved to be convenient to have a family so engaged in trade. There were times when Tynan delivered relics for Rosamunde—though under protest—and other times when Michael dispatched trained falcons from Inverfyre. All of the men discussed routes when the family met and Madeline was glad she had listened even as much as she had.

The hoof beats grew in volume, coming dangerously close. Rhys lowered himself further and Madeline buried her face in his shoulder. The horses passed without halting, then faded in the distance of the direction they meant to go this day.

Rhys waited long moments before he finally rose. As soon as he did, Madeline leapt to her feet and dressed with haste, knowing full well what had to be done. She relieved herself and washed with uncommon speed, then returned to find the horses saddled.

She opened one saddlebag and granted Rhys a piece of bread, another chunk of cheese and an apple. He hesitated, eying the low angle of the sun, clearly estimating how far they could ride this day.

“We must eat,” she counseled sternly. “And it will serve little to be fast upon their heels.”

“I would seek a fork in the road.” Rhys accepted the food and counsel with impatience, but at least he ceded to her. “There must be another route, one that they will not anticipate.”

“I believe the road does fork, perhaps at Abington.” Madeline tried to recall the precise location as Rhys watched her with interest. “The east road goes to Edinburgh, the west to Glasgow.”

“And there must be links between them, shortcuts for those traveling in the opposite direction.” Rhys bent and seized a handful of ashes from the dead fire, then began to rub them over his destrier’s hide. Arian quickly took on a darker hue.

“Once one has consorted with horse thieves, their cunning is not readily forgotten,” Madeline said, then took a handful of ash to the horse’s other side.

Rhys’ grin flashed unexpectedly. “The strategy works so long as there is no rain. Will you pray for that, my lady?”

“If my husband makes the matter worth my while,” she teased, liking the way his eyes gleamed. The bite of the wind was suddenly less, the threat offered by the king’s men more remote. She smiled at her husband, a tingle dancing over her very flesh.

Rhys started at some noise in the distance and his merry mood was dispatched. Madeline shivered, reminded of the sun ducking suddenly behind a cloud, leaving a chill where its heat had been.

“They might believe you intent upon begging clemency at the court of the King of Scotland,” she suggested.

“And so we could feign that we made a course to Edinburgh,” Rhys mused, then regarded her steadily. He began to smile. “You guessed all along that we fled the king’s men.”

Madeline sniffed. “I would wager that you do not know a single soul in Glasgow.”

Rhys shook his head. “And I would wager that you will not agree to patiently wait hidden here while I check the road.”

Madeline met his bemused gaze. “For better or for worse, husband, we ride together.”

Rhys nodded, apparently not displeased. “Aye and for better or for worse, anwylaf, we come to understand each other.” He offered his hand. “Into the saddle, my lady. It will be a long day.”

* * *

And so it was.

For three days and nights, they gave a merry chase to the party on the black destriers. They hid in barns and lurked in forests; they raced down roads making all the noise they could muster, then crept back along shallow creeks. Rhys dodged and feinted with such abandon that Madeline was oft unsure whether they made any progress toward Glasgow at all.

They heard the great horses, of course. Madeline caught only the barest glimpse of the beasts’ dark rumps, for Rhys always hid her fully from the sight of them. Their hoof beats thundered past hiding places, the sound of their passing making Madeline’s heart thump in fear.

On the first day, they came close enough to Glasgow to enter a warren of entangled roads around its perimeter, which pleased her spouse mightily. Rhys seemingly made a random choice at every crossroads, darting this way and that across the countryside. The hoof beats were fast behind them the first day, through she heard them less frequently with every passing day.

It was only on the third day that Madeline realized they had steadily eased to the northwest, circumnavigating Glasgow on the north side. On that day, too, she heard the party pursuing them less and less frequently. Perhaps their pursuers truly had believed that they had made for Edinburgh. There was no hint of them when she awakened on the fourth morning to the patter of rain.

All was grey around her, many of the trees just beginning to come into leaf. The sky was an endless spread of pewter-hued clouds and the rain already began to make mud of the road. Rhys huddled in his cloak, watchful and silent as he had been for days.

“There will be a new moon this night,” he said gruffly, as if such news was of great import.

“And what of it?”

“It is time we made haste.” He stood then and shook the rain out of his cloak, saddling the horses with quick purpose.

Madeline knew she should be coming accustomed to her husband’s manner, but such enigmatic statements still had the power to annoy her. Yet she knew that if she asked him for an explanation, he would not grant her one.

“How old are you, Rhys?” she asked while assembling the last of their fare. Three apples were the sum of it. She hoped his scheme to make haste included a good meal later this day.

“I have seen thirty summers. Why do you ask?”

“And do you oft consort with women?”

“I have, on occasion.” He regarded her with suspicion. “Why?”

“But never for more than a night or two, I would wager.”

Rhys nodded, but said no more.

“That answers my question, then.”

“What question?”

“How so vexing a man could survive so long, of course. Had you been wed before, you would have been found dead in your own bed years ago! There is not a woman alive who can endure such a meager measure of information as you will surrender.” Madeline bit into her apple. “And even that must be coaxed from your lips morsel by morsel.”

“Yet every time I have very nearly been found dead in my bed, as you say, it has been because I confessed too much to some soul I should not have trusted.” He tightened the harness around the palfrey’s belly, unrepentant. “I think you have the wrong end of the tale, my lady.”

Madeline stopped eating to regard him in astonishment. “Do you mean that you tell me so little because you still do not trust me? What cause have you to distrust me?”

“What cause have I to trust you?” he answered and held her gaze unswervingly.

“But we meet abed each night in pleasure!”

“That and trust are two different matters.”

“I should be insulted.”

“You are too clever not to see that I speak the truth. Come, my lady, time it is to ride.”

Madeline let him aid her to mount, uncertain what to do about his skepticism. What she could do to encourage his trust? Madeline could imagine no worse fate than spending her life beside a man who did not—or would not—trust her.

She had aided his flight. She had shared what she knew of the countryside. She had wed him, she had bedded him, she had agreed to his demand for sons, she had tried to make their marriage meet her expectations. What else could she do?

Or had she only to continue on her present course to slowly win him to her side? Was Rhys so terse because he softened toward her, and he feared the import of that?

Madeline had plenty of time to consider the puzzle, for Rhys was disinclined to talk on this day. Each time she tried to speak, he raised an imperious finger, silencing her as he listened intently for any hint of pursuit.

And the weather was not an aid to conversation. Within moments of their riding out of their camp, the gentle patter ended and it began to rain as if the deluge had come again. The rain fell in sheets, it fell relentlessly, steadily, endlessly. They were sodden to their very bones within moments, and the soot was washed away quickly from Arian’s hide.

Fortunately, there did not seem to be anyone interested in identifying the horse or two riders fool enough to be out in such weather. The road was so quiet that Rhys began to ride openly, his pace relentless.

Rhys took a course due west, without explanation, and Madeline watched the plumes of smoke that must be rising from Glasgow slide past them to the south. It was clear he did not make for Glasgow at all. She wondered at his destination, for only the highlands and islands lay ahead of them.

And the sea, of course. She smell its salt in the wind and taste it in the rain. She strained her ears and thought she could discern its rhythm on a close shore. That was welcome, at least, for she had missed the sound and sight of the ocean.

She might not know where she was going, or what her husband desired of her beyond those sons, but she would take the lesson from his tales. She would savor whatever small gifts came to her. She would look forward to seeing the sea in all its silver majesty again.

And that, for the moment, would have to suffice.

* * *

In contrast, far to the south at Caerwyn keep, the sun shone merrily. The sea glistened beyond the high white walls for which the keep was named, the pennants snapped in the wind from the sea, birds cried overhead and the widow of Henry ap Dafydd was annoyed beyond belief.

Nelwyna supposed that she should have become accustomed to matters not proceeding in her favor, for she had faced obstacle after obstacle since arriving as a new bride at this holding. Nonetheless, each new challenge seemed an insult, an abnegation of all she had suffered and endured in the hope of ultimately achieving her ambition. Thus, each cursed time that something went awry, she was infuriated.

All she had ever desired, all she had ever deserved, was to be the lady of a fief. She did not even care which one, and even Caerwyn, at this point, would suffice. Nelwyna had wed Henry ap Dafydd, believing that she would be his lady upon her marriage, but she had been deceived. Henry had held title to nothing. All the family wealth had passed to his elder brother, Dafydd ap Dafydd. Even when Dafydd had captured Caerwyn, she had hoped he might grant it to Henry, but Dafydd had kept all.

Even now, with Dafydd and Henry both dead, and Dafydd’s wife and children also gone, Nelwyna was merely regent, in her step-son’s stead. Nelwyna chafed with the awareness that her authority could be (and would be) removed with but a moment’s notice.

It was unfair!

On this day, to be sure, her mood was already sour, but morning had brought many vexations to test an old woman’s humor. Nelwyna had awakened with aches in her joints and her years heavy upon her shoulders. She was painfully aware that she had not much time left to gain her objective.

She made her painful way to the hall, anticipating a good meal to break her fast, at least. Sadly, she would not eat alone this day. The pretty face of her husband’s cursed courtesan, and the sparkle of that woman’s laughter, did little to brighten the morn.

Indeed, the sight of Adele was enough to make Nelwyna’s blood boil. Nelwyna had never become accustomed to the Welsh, with their disregard for the sanctity of marital vows, with their lack of concern with legitimacy. When Henry had returned from a journey with Adele fairly in his lap, almost forty summers before, the entire household had been shocked that Nelwyna was not immediately pleased.

A man needed a son, they told her.

A man must do what must be done.

She should be glad, they told her, that the burden of responsibility had been removed from her, that there would be no shame attached to her name.

Nelwyna, surrounded by mad people, her own womb seemingly intent on producing solely daughters, had feigned acceptance. She had pretended that their scheme made great sense, she had hidden her resentment, she had welcomed the whore to her home with a false smile.

But Nelwyna had never accepted Adele’s presence. She had prayed for the whore to die in labor, with no result. She had schemed to ensure the whore had a fateful accident, but the woman had the luck of the angels.

Worse, Adele never seemed to age, a fact that Nelwyna despised when she felt her every year so keenly. Adele’s face was nigh as smooth as the day she had arrived here. She was calm and serene and so sweet of nature that she fairly made Nelwyna’s teeth ache.

It was uncommonly cruel that Adele had been the one to bear Henry the son he so desired.

“Look, Nelwyna!” Adele cried as the older woman had made her way to the board. “A missive from my sister, Miriam.”

That Adele was happier than usual this day was as salt in the wound.

“How delightful. How fortunate you are to have kin who remember you.” Nelwyna settled herself at the board and took the largest piece of honeycomb without remorse. It was her right to eat first, at least, and she never refrained from taking the best that was offered. “How wise it was for Miriam to take the veil and retire from secular life, once her husband had died.”

It was the broadest hint imaginable, but Adele only smiled. “I had long thought you might so retire. Henry, after all, has been gone these ten years and you have no surviving children to make demands upon you.”

The reminder that Adele’s child lived, despite Nelwyna’s efforts, made the older woman grind her teeth. Nelwyna vowed then to have vengeance upon the courtesan. How vulgar and selfish Adele was! And Nelwyna was the only one who could see it!

Adele, oblivious, unfurled the missive and read with avid interest, her small white teeth nibbling at the fullness of her ruddy bottom lip.

Was it possible that there was not a single silver hair in that ebony mane?

“Oh!” Adele said, and paled. She frowned and read the missive again, then tucked it hastily into her bodice.

“Bad tidings?” Nelwyna asked.

Adele granted her the barest glance. “It is not of import. What fine honey we have this day!”

In that moment Nelwyna decided she must read that missive. She would have wagered that there was news within it that she could use in her own favor.

Tidings she could use against this pretty fool.

* * *

That objective brought Nelwyna to Adele’s chamber, in the midst of a fine afternoon. Adele always retired to rest in the afternoon, a old habit adopted when Henry was alive. He had accompanied his courtesan to her chamber in those days, and the sounds of their lovemaking had been evident to any soul who pressed her ear against the door to listen.

Nelwyna, meanwhile, had been compelled to welcome Henry late at night, after he had drunk his fill of ale, after his prick had already been bathed in his whore’s sauces.

She did not miss the old cur. She would have been rid of the whore upon his death, but the choice had not been hers to make. By some folly of her father—or some glib tale of her spouse—she had been wed to the younger son of Dafydd, the man who would only inherit if his elder brother died before him.

Sadly, Dafydd ap Dafydd had been a vigorous old toad, and had only surrendered his grip upon all he owned the previous Yule. It had been a measure of Henry’s merit, in Nelwyna’s opinion, that he had never cared that he lived in his brother’s home, beneath his brother’s hand, taking his meals and his ale from his brother’s table. The man had not had a drop of jealousy in his veins, nor any measure of ambition. He had been content in Dafydd’s shadow, the old fool.

Worse, when Henry had finally died, Dafydd had professed to liking Adele too much to cast her out. Nelwyna had oft wondered if he had partaken of Adele’s feast in Henry’s absence.

She crept into Adele’s chamber, hating that it was so much finer than her own. It was warmer, it was larger, it had a better view and it was more richly appointed. Only an imbecile could have failed to discern the intensity of Henry’s affections.

It had been that son that had changed all. Nelwyna could never decide whether she loathed Adele or Rhys the most.

On the far side of the chamber, Adele slept, a small smile upon her face—perhaps one born of recollection—a sunbeam caressing her cheek. The letter was on the small table beside her bed. Nelwyna stealthily crossed the floor.

It had been here that Adele had borne her children. Sons, all of them, curse her! Nelwyna had borne four daughters by the time Adele had arrived, four daughters conceived with some difficulty and delivered with even more. Adele had ripened within the season with her first, perhaps because Henry had not been able to leave her be.

Nelwyna had been rid of the first son easily enough. She had aided at the birth, for none suspected the depth of her hatred for this whore, and had offered to check the progress of the babe. She would never forget plunging her hand into Adele’s heat, feeling the genitals of a boy, then impulsively easing the slick cord around the babe’s neck.

He had been born dead, no one the wiser.

Or so Nelwyna had thought. At the birth of the second, she had been kept from Adele’s side by the burly midwife with her suspicious eyes. At Henry’s insistence, Nelwyna had been given the infant boy to hold—“her new son” he said, ever gallant—and Nelwyna had seized a moment to hug him closely. She had pressed the swaddling against his tiny nose and mouth. Only when he wriggled no more had she loosed her hold, and cried out in dismay that something was amiss.

Nelwyna halted beside the bed, glaring down at her competitor with a hatred that was seldom undisguised. The third son had been born here, but Nelwyna had been barred from the chamber, accompanied by Henry to the great hall to wait. No protest had eased his resolve to keep her from joining the women that night, and miraculously, no ale crossed his lips.

When they put his screaming son into his arms, Henry had tickled the boy’s chin and the babe had fallen silent immediately. The small hand had closed around Henry’s finger, as if trusting his father to ensure his welfare. Nelwyna still could see Henry, see the awe in his gaze, could hear his voice.

“His name is Rhys,” Henry had said with rare vigor, then had raised his knowing gaze to meet Nelwyna’s own. “In memory of the Welsh leader Rhys ap Tudur. Already this child has overcome such great adversity that I know he, too, will be long remembered.”

He had turned then to address the gathered household. “My wife will never be within three strides of this child, she will not hold him, she will never feed him, she will never be left alone with him. Does every soul understand me?”

That he would shame her so in front of their servants had nigh killed Nelwyna. Henry had no right to speak to her thus! He had no reason to make the household suspicious of her!

She had hated him from that day forward.

And she had had her vengeance by turning one of the pleasures he loved most against him. Slowly, Henry became accustomed to a slight taste in his beloved ale. That was the only hint of the presence of an herb that addled his wits and shriveled his intellect.

Nelwyna would have preferred to shrivel another part of Henry and eliminate an entirely different pleasure, but she did not know the potion for that. What she knew had had to suffice.

She laid a hand upon the missive, watching the rhythm of Adele’s breathing carefully, then fled the chamber on silent feet.

She would have to return it, but if Adele awakened, all would not be lost. Like many pretty women, like many souls burdened with the abundant blessings of good fortune, Adele was inclined to forget the locale of her treasures. Nelwyna would leave it in the hall, if compelled to do so, and Adele would believe she had left it there.

Nelwyna unfurled the missive impatiently, beside the sole window on the stairs, read in haste, then clenched it in her fist.

Rhys had wed!

Adele undoubtedly was wounded that her son had not told her of this news himself, but Nelwyna saw more in the tale. She saw the bride’s name and already understood how cunning and thorough Rhys was. Gone was the chance that she could present an imposter as Dafydd’s sole surviving daughter.

Nelwyna had waited long for the authority of Caerwyn to fall into her hands fully, she had already seen children dead for her ambition, and she was too aged to wait patiently any longer.

The solution was simple. Rhys FitzHenry would have to die. And if his new bride Madeline carried his child, she would have to die as well. Nelwyna returned the missive to Adele’s chamber, then retreated to her own chamber to compose a missive of her own.

It was good, in such times, to have neighbors one could rely upon. Robert Herbert held Harlech, just across the bay, and had made his lust for Caerwyn most clear. It was time, Nelwyna was certain, to secure an alliance with Robert that would grant both of them what they most desired.

* * *

Rhys supposed the tavern before them would serve well enough. It was late and Madeline was clearly tired, though still she rode valiantly without complaint. He would have continued onward, but he suspected they would fare no better.

They would only be more cold and more tired.

This tavern was not located on a main thoroughfare, and it was not one of the larger establishments in town. It was busy, but not too busy, and Rhys was glad to note that none expected to know him here. If they were accustomed to travelers, then they would take little notice of two more.

“I believe the babe is making you ill this night,” he said beneath his breath to Madeline, who had not ceased to tuck the bundle of cloth beneath her skirts each day.

“How ill?” she asked softly, with a wondrous lack of argument. That alone showed her exhaustion, to Rhys’ thinking. He would do well to provide her with a bed and a warm meal this night, for she must be unaccustomed to such hardship as their journey had demanded.

“So ill that you will be compelled to take to your bed and bar the door.” Rhys gave her a stern look as he dismounted in the small courtyard of the tavern. The sound of men enjoying their ale carried from the common room and the creak of masts in the harbor could be heard in the nearby harbor. The wind was crisp off the sea.

“This must be Dumbarton,” Madeline said as he fitted his hands around her waist.

“So it is.” Rhys tossed a coin at the ostler, then held Madeline’s elbow with care. To his delight, she leaned on him and moaned softly, walking with apparent effort toward the portal. He had thought his ploy a thin one, but Madeline made it entirely plausible.

To Rhys’ further delight, she began to complain, as if they had been wed for years and were in the habit of bickering. And her accent changed, her words beginning to rollick and roll with the same vigor as those uttered by the people of the highlands.

Rhys was impressed. He struggled to do as admirable a job of disguising himself as she.

“I fear we rode too quickly this afternoon, my lord,” Madeline complained, her tone shrewish. “It was just as I warned you, but did you heed my counsel? Nay, of course not. What need had you of the advice of a mere woman? You and your cursed haste! What rush was there, what need for such a pace?”

“I wanted you out of the rain, lest you be chilled,” Rhys answered as if sorely tried by his wife. He exchanged a glance with the ostler, who looked most sympathetic before he ducked away, leading the horses to the stables. The innkeeper came to the portal, taking care to remain out of the rain, while Rhys urged Madeline closer to warmth and a hearty meal.

“So, I am chilled and prepared to retch, thanks to your thoughtlessness.” Madeline snapped. “It is a foul combination, sir, and one I would have readily forgone.”

Rhys pretended to take umbrage at this. “Then you should not have insisted that we had to visit your mother immediately!” He flung out one hand. “You might have been home in your own bed this night but for your own demand. You cannot be warm at home and warm at your mother’s abode on the same night!”

The innkeeper bit back a smile at this exchange, and gestured grandly to his humble inn. They stepped through the door and were immediately perused by the dozen or so men gathered there to drink. The smoke stung Rhys’ eyes and it was dark, but he did not think he knew anyone in that chamber.

Though it was impossible to be certain that no one knew him. The men glanced up and Rhys was afraid.

Madeline began to behave like a spoiled child. “How could I remain in that unholy place you insist upon calling my home? My mother will aid me with this child you have put in my belly, my mother will show me kindness as no one in your cursed household will do!”

“But, my dear...” Rhys did not know what to do, much less what a doting husband should do. He glanced to the innkeeper, then to the other men gathered there, all of whom took a sudden and considerable interest in their cups of ale.

Indeed, they turned their backs upon the feuding couple and ignored them.

Madeline burst into tears, so adept at pretending to be a distraught woman that Rhys was discomfited. “All I asked was to visit my mother!” she wailed. “All I asked was to have a good husband! What sin have I committed in my days to deserve this unkind fate?” She pushed him aside and swatted his arm. “You liked me well enough before your own seed made me fat!”

The innkeeper cleared his throat. “Perhaps the good sir would prefer a chamber, that the lady might slumber in privacy?”

“That would be most fitting,” Rhys said.

“And a bath!” Madeline cried. “I would sell my soul, sir, for a hot bath.” She leaned closer to confide in this innkeeper. “We have only one servant in his abode, and she is the most lazy creature I have ever seen with my own eyes. She is fortunate that I did not insist upon her accompanying us, for my mother would take a switch to her!”

“I have no doubt that a bath can be had for a slightly more reasonable price,” Rhys interrupted, feeling some irritation that he was being cast in such unfavorable light. He nodded to the innkeeper. “A cup of ale, a bowl of hearty stew and a piece of bread will go far in restoring my lady’s mood, to be sure.”

“Of course, sir. I have a chamber at the top of the stairs, which overlooks the street. If you will be so kind as to follow me?”

“One piece of bread?” Madeline snarled as they followed the innkeeper up the narrow staircase. “I could eat six! This child has made me ravenous and you, you would save a penny rather than see me granted a decent meal. With such cruelty, I shall end up bearing you a dark child, so shriveled that even the fairies will not have any desire of stealing it.”

Rhys barely kept himself from giving her a shake. “I thought you were too ill to eat much.”

The lock upon the door seemed to require every mote of the innkeeper’s attention.

Madeline straightened like a queen on the threshold of the chamber and glared at Rhys. “I shall do what I must to ensure the vigor of our child,” she said haughtily. “Though you will not thank me for it, to be sure.”

Then she turned one of those smiles that left Rhys so dazzled upon the innkeeper, leaving that man blinking as well. “This chamber is lovely,” she said warmly. “I thank you for the offering of it and look forward to both bath and meal.”

With that, Madeline swept regally into the small chamber, which in truth was barely big enough to accommodate the pallet upon the floor. Rhys did not doubt that a few fleas could be found in the linens.

“A feisty one,” that man muttered beneath his breath. “But fair to look upon, if I may say so, sir.”

“It is the babe that vexes her,” Rhys agreed in an undertone. “I am certain that her sweet nature will return with the babe’s arrival.”

“That has not been my experience, sir, but I wish you better fortune than mine.” The innkeeper leaned closer. “And if you would have a decent night’s rest yourself, I would note that among my own wife’s skills is that of making a good potion.”

“What manner of potion do you offer?”

“One that will ensure your wife sleeps deeply this night.”

He named a price that seemed quite reasonable to Rhys. Indeed, it would suit Rhys well to know that Madeline slept soundly—remained out of trouble and asked no questions—while he made the necessary arrangements for the continuation of their journey to Caerwyn. His friend’s ship would sail south on night after the new moon, and Rhys intended that they should both be upon it.

“It will not injure the babe?” he asked, knowing that he should do so to maintain their disguise.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Nay, my wife learned it from a midwife.”

“I think it a sound notion. Exhaustion does little to aid one’s mood, and my lady never sleeps well when we are away from our abode. I thank you for the suggestion.”

“Grant me a few moments, sir, and I will return with all.” The innkeeper then raised his voice to shout for a brazier for the chamber.

Rhys crossed the threshold and closed the door behind himself with relief. He was utterly unprepared for Madeline to launch herself into his arms, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“Were they not fooled?” she whispered, clearly pleased with her ploy. “There is not a soul who will be able to identify us on the morrow. Did they not look away from us, each and every one of them?”

Rhys smiled at her, unable to resist her delight in her feat.

“They did indeed, anwylaf,” he acknowledged with admiration. He cupped her jaw in his hand and slipped his other arm around her waist. She leaned against him, a heat kindling in her gaze that made him smile. “And it was all due to your quick thinking.” He claimed her lips with his own then, for truly, he could do nothing else.

Chapter Thirteen

In another, much more busy, tavern in Dumbarton, Elizabeth was glad to be out of the saddle. The destrier was too large a mount for her, she had known as much as soon as she was lifted into the saddle, though she had not dared to complain for fear she would be left behind. Her knees ached nigh as much as her buttocks, for she had had to clench the steed tightly to ensure that she was not cast into the dirt.

They had ridden for more days than she could count. Elizabeth could not recall having ridden for more than half a day before this seemingly endless journey. She wondered whether she would ever walk with ease again.

She also wondered why Madeline had ever possessed any fondness for James. Elizabeth was certain that she had never met a man so tedious in all her days. She could not imagine that James had any great affection for Madeline, for the man saved all of his admiration for himself.

Elizabeth had the definite sense that James had only arrived to wed Madeline because his father had thought the match a fitting one, though she knew that was an uncharitable thought.

James plucked at his lute as they sat at the board, more concerned with some tune he had composed this day than Madeline’s safety or even the common courtesy of table manners. He had been most vexed earlier this day that Rosamunde had refused to halt their search so that he could ensure he did not forget the tune by playing it a dozen times. He had sulked the remainder of the day, only conjuring a smile now that he had his lute in his hands once again.

Elizabeth would have liked to have destroyed the lute, so sick was she of James’ tuneless plucking. The man imagined himself to be far more gifted than he was, in her opinion.

But then, her buttocks ached and she was tired. Perhaps she would have looked more kindly upon him in better circumstance.

Perhaps not.

The spriggan had not been easy company, either. The mischievous fairy had pulled the horses’ tails, spooked them in the night, and tied knots in their manes. A skittish destrier was no small challenge, especially for a rider of Elizabeth’s size, but the spriggan seemed to care nothing for her convenience.

Additionally, Elizabeth had fished it out of more than one stream and snatched it in the air when it had lost its grip upon one horse or the other. She felt responsible for its welfare, as she was the only one who could see it and she had brought it along, though it had done little to reward her efforts.

At least she knew what it was and that its name was Darg. It talked to her sometimes, and told far better tales than any Elizabeth had ever heard.

She sighed with exhaustion as Rosamunde and Alexander argued about Rhys’ intent and watched Darg consider the pottery ale cups on the board. The spriggan would do something, Elizabeth was certain of it, and she only hoped it would not take much effort to set matters aright. She yawned mightily, wanting only a pallet before the fire.

“He means to trick us,” Alexander said, dropping his voice and leaning over the table. “He will leave in the night and ride south with all haste. We err in taking our slumber here, especially without knowing his destination within Dumbarton’s walls.”

“I only hope that Madeline is well,” Vivienne said with some uncertainty. Vivienne sat opposite Elizabeth, looking as exhausted as Elizabeth felt. “Finding Kerr was horrible! Surely you do not think that Rhys would injure Madeline?”

“I suspect he saved her from injury,” Rosamunde said tightly. “I never liked that mercenary Kerr and was glad when your father dispatched him.”

“He did?” Alexander asked in dismay. “I did not know of this.”

“You should have asked more questions before taking a man into your employ,” Rosamunde said firmly. “Tynan likely could have told you more.”

Alexander frowned in consideration of this and looked so troubled that Rosamunde laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“I know this has not been easy for you,” she said. “You will learn, Alexander, and years from now, you will laugh at your own uncertainties.”

“I hope as much,” he said and drank grimly of his ale. “It seems all I do turns to disaster.”

No one argued with that.

“You could ensure that all ended as well as an old tale,” Elizabeth whispered to Darg.

The spriggan laughed, then faced Elizabeth, hands on hips. “A sorry day it will then be, if I should aid a mortal like thee. Fate’s sharp needle is meant to prick, no mortal can avoid its nick.”

A man at the next table granted Elizabeth a smile that she dared not return. She felt her color rise as she deliberately ignored him, knowing that he probably thought she talked to herself.

She bent over the board, lifting a piece of bread to her lips that she might whisper to the spriggan without arousing curiosity. “You could ensure Madeline’s happiness. I saw what mischief you made with the ribbons. You have abilities that I do not.”

Darg appeared to be shocked. “A uncommon mortal you might be, if Fate’s fine threads you can see.” She regarded Elizabeth with suspicion. “The ribbons twine for destined souls, tightly knotted like thorn and rose. Such pairs cannot be rent asunder, come hail or flood or dark or thunder.”

It sounded perfect to Elizabeth and she leaned forward in her excitement. “Will you aid Madeline? Will you ensure that her ribbon and Rhys’ are properly joined? I liked him when we met and I think she did as well.” She refrained from glancing toward James.

Darg grinned. “Her betrothed mortal will soon be, so close that she herself can see.” Darg looked pointedly at James then grimaced, not apparently liking the minstrel any more than Elizabeth did.

James crooned to himself as he plucked his tune, nodding with satisfaction at what seemed a most simple and uninspired melody to Elizabeth’s ears. He seemed oblivious of the others at the table.

“Dreadful manners,” Elizabeth muttered. “Maman would have boxed his ears.”

“This mortal’s ears are wrought of tin, if he finds beauty in his din,” Darg said with disgust.

“Exactly! Madeline cannot be forced to wed him,” Elizabeth insisted. “You could ensure that she is happy with Rhys!”

“It is not for me to change her life, to choose for her either wealth or strife.”

“That is not true! I saw you knot Rosamunde’s ribbons! I do not doubt that you caused the argument between her and Tynan.”

Darg shrugged, though its expression was sly and it cast a glance toward Rosamunde that spoke volumes. “Every heart has its own key, the unlocking is not left to me.”

Elizabeth grit her teeth and wondered what she could do to win the stubborn fairy’s aid.

“Rhys surely must be planning to sail to Caerwyn,” Rosamunde said with conviction, unaware of Elizabeth’s conversation with the spriggan. “There is no other reason to have come to Dumbarton. He will not ride further, but arrange passage on a ship. We must keep a vigil and watch the vessels in the harbor.” She pointed at Padraig, who heaved a sigh.

“Might I finish this cup of ale first?” that man asked. He looked longingly toward the hearth. “A hot meal would also be welcome, before I spend another night in the rain.”

Rosamunde drummed her fingers on the table with impatience, even as Darg climbed to the lip of Elizabeth’s cup. The spriggan gave a shout of glee, then bent precariously and sipped of the ale. It drank like a hound, lapping from the surface, though the ale disappeared with astonishing speed.

“I would have you take a count of the ships in the harbor, note their colors and the names of their captains, and then return for your meal. I apologize, Padraig, but we must not lose Madeline when we are so close.”

Darg hooted and danced around the rim of the cup while Elizabeth watched. There had to be some way to persuade Darg to help, but Elizabeth could not think of what it was.

Maybe she would be more clever in the morning, after she had slept.

“As you wish.” Padraig stood, drained his ale, granted Rosamunde a dark glance, then left the tavern. He drew his cloak around himself, and a chilly gust of wind swirled around the ankles of all as he opened the portal.

Elizabeth shivered, flicked Darg from the rim of her cup, and took another swig of the ale. It warmed her innards in a way that was not displeasing, and even the smell of the peat fire did not trouble her on this night.

Darg meanwhile tumbled across the table, coming to an ungainly halt against Vivienne’s cup. The spriggan was on its back, legs askew, a vexed expression on its small sharp face.

“But where is Caerwyn?” Vivienne asked Rosamunde. “Is it a castle with high towers?” The spriggan pulled itself up onto the rim of Vivienne’s cup, then drank heartily of that cup’s contents.

Could fairies become drunk? Elizabeth was not certain.

Rosamunde smiled. “It has a single tower and faces the sea. When Rhys and I crossed paths before, he was in service to his uncle, who is lord there. He undoubtedly has returned to that abode.”

“But where is it?” Alexander asked. “It cannot be on the west of Scotland.”

“It is in Wales, in the very shadow of Snowdonia.” Rosamunde sipped of her own ale, her gaze slipping over the other people gathered in the tavern as if she assessed a threat. Elizabeth supposed her aunt had become accustomed to always being observant of her surroundings.

“Caerwyn was fortified by the English king Edward I. He defeated the Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, and made a statement of his suzerainty by building a ring of stone fortresses around Snowdonia and reinforcing the existing ones he captured. Rhys’ uncle and the Welsh rebel Owain Glyn Dwr captured Caerwyn and another keep, Harlech, from the English forces some years ago.”

Vivienne picked up her cup and frowned, apparently surprised to find so little ale within it. The spriggan shook a fist at Vivienne for so rudely interrupting its drink, then strutted toward Alexander’s cup.

“A fortress?” Alexander sat back and shoved a hand through his hair, leaving it in a dark tangle. “You do not suppose that we will be kept from seeing Madeline, if they reach there before us?”

“Who can say?” Rosamunde spared a dissatisfied glance for James, who had closed his eyes and thrown back his head to listen to his own music. “It would be best if we found them first, would you not say, James?”

Rosamunde had to say his name twice more before James became aware of her voice. “What did you say?” he asked, then scowled at his stilled fingers. “I have forgotten my place in the tune, thanks to your interruption.”

“Forgive me for reminding you of the reason for our journey,” Rosamunde said tartly. “I had thought you interested in finding Madeline.”

Annoyance flickered across James’ features and was quickly gone, though not so quickly that the others did not note it. Elizabeth felt Alexander stiffen beside her and saw Vivienne’s lips thin. “Of course I am determined to find Madeline,” James said and summoned his most charming smile. “She is my betrothed and my beloved.”

“You do not seem overly concerned with her welfare,” Alexander said.

“You do not seem fearful that she has been injured, or that she might be unhappy,” Vivienne charged.

“Indeed, you seem more besotted with your lute than your betrothed,” Elizabeth concluded.

“Me?” James looked between the three of them with astonishment. “I only compose a love song, that I might salute my lost lady appropriately when we are united again.” He placed his hand over his heart. “My days have been dark since we parted and I can think of nothing else but seeing her sweet countenance again.”

Vivienne snorted. “Then why did you let her believe you dead for the better part of a year? That is no kindness to inflict upon a beloved.”

“I thought she knew! I never would have granted her a moment’s anguish, had I guessed she did not know the truth!”

“How would she have learned the truth,” Alexander asked carefully. “Since every man who fought at Rougemont was killed, but you?”

James colored and averted his gaze. “Oh, I was not the only one. You have heard an exaggeration, to be sure.”

Alexander snorted and refrained from saying more, though it was clear he had more to say.

Elizabeth did not believe James, not at all. She wondered if he had even been at Rougemont. She gave Darg a stern glance, but the spriggan defiantly climbed the lip of James’ cup. Darg was somewhat less steady on its feet now as it danced around the rim and chortled over the merits of mortal ale.

Alexander picked up his cup, frowned that it was empty, then put it down heavily on the board. “When did you return home from France?” he asked, his annoyance barely disguised. “Where have you been since the battle at Rougemont?”

“Listening to music!” James cried, his eyes alight for the first time. “I heard the music in the cathedrals in France and it was so wondrous that I had to learn more. Madeline will be appreciative of this, I know for certain, for the love of music is a bond she and I share. Listen!” He lifted his lute and plucked his tune again.

Darg put its fingers in its ears and grimaced at the sound. Elizabeth stifled a laugh at the spriggan’s antics, for she shared its view. Vivienne and Alexander exchanged a rueful glance.

The spriggan finished James’ ale, then mimicked his crooning manner as it eased closer to Rosamunde’s cup. It considered the woman for so long that Elizabeth feared its scheme. She could do little, though, when it climbed to the rim of the cup, then dangled its feet in the ale.

The spriggan kicked its feet with vigor. A spray of ale rose from the cup and drenched the front of Rosamunde’s tabard. “What is this?” that woman demanded, unable to discern why the ale was flying. She leapt to her feet, wiping the ale from the rich embroidery. “My garb will be ruined!”

Darg laughed with wicked glee. Vivienne leapt to her feet and wiped at the ale with her napkin, even as Rosamunde tried to brush the wetness away with her hands.

“There must be an insect in the cup!” Alexander cried and reached for the cup. Darg leapt with unexpected agility to the lip of the jug as Alexander lifted Rosamunde’s cup, shook it and poured its contents into his own.

James halted his playing and regarded them with irritation. “I beg you heed my song. It is a compelling and beauteous tune that only a barbarian would not appreciate.”

Darg laughed so hard and so raucously at this assertion that Elizabeth was shocked none could hear it. The spriggan threw back its head and crooned in perfect mimicry of the lutenist, laughed again, then fell backwards into the jug of ale.

The splash made all at the table jump. “Perhaps it is a rat!” Vivienne cried.

“It is in the ale!” Alexander agreed.

“What piteous accommodation you have chosen for us,” James said to Rosamunde with a sneer. “Rats in the ale! I have never heard the like of it.”

“Then you are welcome to slumber elsewhere,” Rosamunde snarled. “I have paid for your bed and bought your food and endured your dreadful music for long enough.”

The pair leapt to their feet to argue heatedly about James’ manner and Rosamunde’s demands. Elizabeth snatched for the jug of ale, then poured it on the floor to better reveal the rat. The spriggan fell to the floor with a splat, then coughed and gasped with vigor.

“There is nothing there,” Vivienne said, staring at the spilled ale with astonishment.

“It must have leapt out again,” Alexander said, peering around the floor of the tavern.

“What manner of heathens are you to cast good ale upon the floor?” the tavern keeper demanded.

“There was a rat within it!” James shouted.

“There are no rats in my abode,” the tavern keeper retorted and when James might have argued, he ensured the lutenist’s silence with his fist. James fell backward into the rushes on the floor, and did not rise.

The other patrons applauded.

“He is besotted!” the tavern keeper cried to his guests. “There is a man unable to hold his ale, for it is early to be seeing rats that are not there.”

The company laughed and resumed their conversations. Rosamunde picked up the lute and set to removing its strings with savage gestures. “At least we will not have to endure his music any longer,” she said at Alexander’s inquiring glance. She smiled at Vivienne. “Fear not, I would not destroy an instrument of such value. I shall return the strings once he is reunited with Madeline.” Then she dropped her voice to a growl. “May we have the good fortune that that should occur soon. I would be certain that my goddaughter fares well.”

Elizabeth bent and picked up the spriggan when no one was looking. She hid it in her lap, struck it on the back while it coughed out the last of the ale, then wrapped it in her napkin when it shivered. It sighed and leaned against her hand, then prodded her with its long nose.

“A boon is owed, that much is clear, from me to you for another held dear. To your sister’s aid I soon will come, though none can be certain what Fate will see done.”

Elizabeth smiled in triumph, at the same moment that the man at the next table caught her eye. She flushed anew, and looked down at her cup, but he did not look away again.

She did not doubt that he was enamored of her wretchedly large breasts and no more than that. Perhaps Darg’s spells could be of aid in ridding her of these unwanted curves!

But first matters first. Madeline’s plight was more dire, to be certain.

* * *

Madeline dreams of a thick fog pressing against the walls of the inn, a fog so thick that it cannot be natural. The fog pours through the shutters and fills the chamber like so much wool. It cannot be halted, but comes at a fearsome pace, growing ever deeper and deeper.

And Rhys sleeps like a dead man, despite her efforts to rouse him.

She closes the shutters, to no avail. She opens the portal, but it flows in from the corridor, as well. She turns back and finds Rhys lost to the fog, which now rises to her waist. It surrounds her, too, engulfing her to the hips, and as it rises higher and higher, she is less capable of raising a finger against it.

A curious indifference seems to fill her. She feels boneless, weightless, and wonders if this floating sensation means that she is dead.

Madeline does not want to be dead. She is too young to die. She wants to bear Rhys his sons, she wants to hear her husband laugh in truth. She forces her eyes open, battling against the relentless press of the fog.

Rhys stands at the window, looking over the town. He is no longer swallowed by the fog, no longer sleeping, no longer abed beside her. His eyes are cold, and silver in hue when they should be dark, as if he has been filled with the fog. The town beyond the window looks different, too, more ethereal, though whether it is simply that Dumbarton lies in darkness or whether they are in another town, Madeline cannot tell.

The night sky is as unnatural as the fog. It is a wondrous indigo, a dark blue that looks darker because of the swirling silver fog, now only as deep as Rhys’ knees. The midnight sky silhouettes her husband’s figure, hundreds of stars twinkling in its darkness. They seem to dance around Rhys, as if the very heavens mean to draw her gaze to this man alone.

She might have married worse, to be sure.

Rhys is dressed as he had been that first night at Ravensmuir. Madeline sees the red dragon of Wales upon his tabard. Its eyes gleam at her, it glows upon his dark tabard, as if wrought of flame not the thread of a clever woman’s needle.

Rhys smiles the little smile that heats Madeline’s blood and she is reassured that he is not changed after all. When he smiles at her, when he caresses her, when he regards her with wonder, Madeline has no doubts of the merit of their match.

She frowns that his cloak is tossed over his shoulders. Was it so before? She cannot recall.

“Sleep with me,” she says, the words thick and unfamiliar on her tongue.

“I have been abed,” he says gently.

She remembers then, she remembers Rhys’ hand upon her breast. She tingles in recollection of the slow caress of his thumb across her nipple. She pats the pallet in invitation.

He shakes his head. “You have slept the night and all the day.”

What whimsy! “I never sleep that long,” she says, surprised to hear her words slurring together.

“You must have been tired.” Rhys bends to retrieve her stockings, then offers them to her. “Come and dress.”

Madeline glances at the night sky and cannot stifle her yawn. “Sleep,” she manages to say, then nestles back into the bed again. She sighs and pulls up a coverlet wrought of fog, its softness claiming her with lethargy.

“We will not sleep here this night.” Rhys sits on the edge of the pallet and tries to push one stocking over her foot. He is awkward with the task, but Madeline is disinclined to aid him. The man wants sons—why does he not come to her bed? “Come, my lady. Aid me in this task.”

“Sleep.”

“Dress yourself, my lady.” Rhys works the other stocking over her calf. They are both twisted, but Madeline does not care. Rhys is cursedly insistent when he shakes her garb before her. “Rise! Don your kirtle, Madeline.”

“Sleep.” Even murmuring the word gives her pleasure.

“We will sleep at our destination. That will be soon enough.”

She opens one eye with heroic effort. “Where?”

“You will see when we arrive.” He pulls her kirtle over her head and lifts her to a sitting posture. Much as she wants to please him, Madeline’s own fingers will not follow her bidding. She cannot fasten her belt around her waist, nor can she don her boots. Rhys is uncommonly persistent, but clearly determined that they will leave.

Madeline shoves a hand through her disheveled braid, too tired to even be annoyed with his characteristic evasiveness. Let him keep his answers. She yawns again, feeling that her jaw will crack with the effort and not caring if it does.

She wants only to sleep.

Rhys pulls her to her feet and wraps his arm around her waist to steady her. His lips are drawn to a thin line, and she touches his mouth with her fingertip, marveling.

“Vexed,” she pronounces, feeling very sage.

He shakes his head.

“Indeed!” she says, thinking he argues the truth of it.

“Vexed indeed, but not with you.” Rhys draws Madeline’s hood over her hair with a tenderness uncommon to him. He tucks her hand into his elbow as they leave the chamber. Madeline is not surprised to find the fog directly outside the portal. Surely Rhys banished it from their chamber? Surely Rhys means to save her from its potent spell?

The fog swirls up the stairs, as if it will clutch her very ankles and Madeline recoils. This is no small foe. Surely Rhys can see the peril before them?

“Not there,” she says, but Rhys only looks into her eyes. She touches the furrow in his brow.

“We go to your mother’s abode, remember?” He speaks to her as if she is a mere child. “You wish to bear our babe there.”

But he was the one uttering childlike statements. Indeed, the man speaks nonsense! Madeline does not carry a child, either in her womb or in her arms. She regards him with confusion, then looks down and sees the lump on her belly. She touches it and remembers her pledge to Rhys.

She bears his son, in truth!

She looks at him with joy and is confused by his answering frown. The fog drifts around their legs, its chill making gooseflesh rise on her shins. There is fog at the periphery of her vision, fog swirling around her ankles, fog hiding the faces of the men gathered in the tavern’s common room.

“Off then, are you?” the keeper demands, his voice so bright and cheerful that Madeline winces.

“Indeed we are,” Rhys says. His manner is terse, more terse than usual.

“A bit late in the day to depart, but I suppose the lady slept well.” The innkeeper seems to find his comment most amusing, though Madeline does not understand the jest. He nudges Rhys, taking no notice of her. “My wife makes a fine concoction, that you cannot deny.”

“Fine is one word for it,” Rhys says tightly. “I think it most treacherous to offer such a posset to a woman with child, no less to expect to be paid for it.”

“Well, then!” The innkeeper appears to be affronted, but Rhys’ tone was harsh. “Value is what we grant here, sir. No cheating on the measure in this inn. I wager that we will see you, on your return journey.”

“I wager you will not,” Rhys says. “Mind your wife keeps her posset to herself, or I shall send the bailiff after her. Both witchery and wickedness are against the law of king and church, as any good man knows.”

The innkeeper’s eyes widens, but Rhys hurries Madeline into the courtyard. Solely his silver destrier waits there, though Madeline peers into the shadows for the palfrey. Maybe the horse has become a shadow. Certainly, Arian could be wrought of fog.

Maybe this is what happens to whatsoever the fog claims. Gelert comes to them, half swallowed by the fog himself. Can Rhys not see the danger here?

Madeline opens her mouth to warn him but cannot make a sound. Her tongue is thick and seems unfamiliar, she cannot fashion the words she would have fall from her lips.

Rhys lifts Madeline, quite improbably, into Arian’s saddle. She looks about herself, her eyes widening at the distance to the ground, and grips the pommel as hard as she can. Rhys takes the reins and leads the horse from the inn’s courtyard. “I sold the palfrey this morning, while you slept.”

Madeline struggles to make sense of her sudden urge to cry. Has she not lost another horse since meeting Rhys? Will she never be able to have a steed of her own again? She cannot remember and that plagues her.

“The price was too high for taking two steeds. And we do not have need of them both on this journey.”

Madeline cannot argue with reasoning she cannot follow. At least the cold fog is withdrawing, or Rhys is leading her away from its clutch. She twists in the saddle and looks back at the faint glow of fog in the inn’s courtyard. To her relief, it does not appear to be following them.

She should have guessed as much. She can trust Rhys to take her away from wickedness.

A wind caresses her face, a wind that smells of salt. Has Rhys returned her to Kinfairlie? Madeline’s heart leaps at the prospect.

But this sea is unfamiliar. It glitters darkly ahead of them, and a dark promontory of stone rises high on their right. A castle perches on the summit of the great rock, but Rhys leads the horse to the wharves that stretch from the village. They lay like dark still fingers upon the shining water. Ships bob at anchor, lanterns swinging from the rigging of one of them, their masts creaking as the wind rises.

“We sail on this night’s tide,” Rhys says. “That is why you have no need of a horse for the moment. I could see no sense in paying the passage of a second horse when there are so many at Caerwyn. Had it been Tarascon, there would have been no choice, of course.”

But Madeline does not heed his reassurance. He means to take her on a ship! She watches their progress with horror, her lips working soundlessly, as he leads the horse closer and closer to the ships. The vessels dance so innocently on the waves, like a child’s toys, but Madeline knows their dark truth.

Ships like these stole her parents. Ships like these bring death. Nausea rises within her. Her parents are lost beneath the waves, stolen from life and entombed in darkness, because they boarded a ship.

And now Rhys takes her upon one of these treacherous vessels.

How can he wish for her to die?

Madeline’s stomach churns with sudden violence. She has time only to lean over the side of the destrier before she vomits. Indeed, the purge is so violent that she looks to see if she has truly poured her innards onto the cobbles.

Rhys is immediately at her side, holding her hand, ensuring that she does not fall from the saddle. “It is probably better to be rid of it,” he says enigmatically. “I should have thought of that sooner.”

Madeline belches like a peasant, then pushes at Rhys’ shoulder. He step aside just in time as she vomits once again. She spits, hating the foul taste in her mouth, and feels a cold trickle of sweat on her back. She thinks of her parents and begins to cry, as if they had been lost to her just this moment. Though she yearns to see them again, she does not wish to die herself. Madeline trembles so hard that her teeth chatter, and weeps, her tears dissolving the last vestige of the fog.

Rhys swears, then pulls her from the saddle into his arms. He holds her fast against his chest and Madeline nestles closer, grateful for his heat. He is a comfort, this unlikely spouse, for all his gruff manner and ferocious guardianship of his secrets.

“We must reach the ship before the tide goes out,” he says to her, murmuring against her temple.

“No ship,” Madeline whispers, clutching at his tabard.

“They are fast behind us,” he says with resolve, and does not slow his pace. The horse and the hound follow. “We must leave this night. The sooner we depart, the sooner we will be home at Caerwyn.”

“Home.” There is a word that Madeline can savor upon her tongue, even if she knows not where it is.

Home is with Rhys, of course. The realization eases her fear slightly.

“Home,” Rhys echoes, sounding as if he smiles a little. “There are two skilled healers there who will ensure this malady is defeated. And the gates can be barred against those who pursue us.”

“No ship,” Madeline urges again. She wants to explain her fear to him, but words abandon her as bile fills her throat yet again.

“We must take the ship.”

“Maman,” she whispers, and loses the battle again against her tears.

Rhys kisses her temple with such tenderness that her tears fall with greater frequency. “I will be with you, anwylaf, not your mother. Fret not, for there is nothing to fear.”

He puts Madeline on her feet and coaxes her to the gangplank then. The rocking makes Madeline clamp a hand over her mouth. She closes her eyes tightly, willing the contents of her belly to remain where they were.

Rhys grips her hand and stares deeply into her eyes. “Trust me,” he says.

And she does.

Madeline nods. She lets Rhys lead her wheresoever he will. The deck of the ship is only slightly more reassuring than the gangplank. She clutches the rail when he returns for Arian, who looks as delighted as she at their next means of conveyance. Gelert leans against her leg, giving consolation with his heat and weight.

She retches over the rail, uncommonly glad to find Rhys’ arm around her waist when she straightens once more. He is warm and solid, reliable.

She could indeed have wed worse.

The sailors shout to each other and cast off the ropes, using long poles to push the ship from the wharf. The sails unfurl, snapping in the wind as if anxious to be gone, then billow large as if they mean to swallow the very stars.

Madeline watches the abyss between herself and the shore broaden. She clutches Rhys when six destriers as black as ravens gallop down the wharf the ship has just abandoned.

Black stallions. She frowns as she fights to gather her thoughts. These stallions seem to breathe fire, as if they are the spawn of hell their kin have long been reputed to be. Two rear as they are reined in and the others shake their bridles in frustration.

It is as if they believe they can run across the surface of the waves, no less that they can catch the ship already fleeing on wind and tide.

They are Ravensmuir destriers. Madeline knows they can be from no other stable. The fearsome black of the Lammergeier family’s horses is widely reputed, vigorously sought and never replicated—Madeline has been taught this truth from the cradle.

But they are not near Ravensmuir. She eyes the castle on its high stone perch and knows it is not familiar. No, these steeds do not belong here.

Nor does the person riding the foremost of them. She dismounts, her fiery hair snaring the light of a dozen harbor lanterns. Madeline’s breath stops. The woman appears to curse with a familiar gusto, then shakes a fist at the departing ship. The wind snatches away her words, but Madeline knows who she is.

And she understands belatedly what foe chases them.

She twists to find Rhys smiling in what must be triumph. “We flee my family,” she manages to say, unable to accept fully what is before her own eyes.

His smile broadens to light his eyes, and his voice drops low. “Perhaps not, anwylaf.”

Madeline studies her husband, unable again to make sense of his words. She is not surprised that he declines to say more.

When she turns back to the wharf, it is empty, the stallions and Rosamunde vanished so surely that they might never have been there at all.

* * *

“Oh no!” Vivienne cried, even as her aunt uttered a curse far worse. The stallions stamped in frustration, for they were rested enough to run. A couple could be discerned upon the deck of the departing ship, the woman leaning heavily upon the man. He was garbed so darkly as to be swallowed by the shadows, his cloak flicking behind the pair.

“Rhys and Madeline,” Alexander whispered.

“I believe so,” Rosamunde said.

Elizabeth knew for certain. She saw the two ribbons, one silver and one gold, trailing behind the departing ship, stretching as they did from that shadowed couple.

But something was amiss. Before her very eyes, the ribbons seemed to fray from the tips, as if the wind shredded them beyond repair. They appeared to be newly thin and insubstantial, wrought of mist or broken dreams.

Darg gave a cry of dismay and leapt into the air. The spriggan snatched at the end of the golden ribbon and Elizabeth feared that the fairy would lose its grip.

Or that the ribbon would dissolve and leave the spriggan to fall into the sea.

“Hasten yourself, Darg!” Elizabeth cried, not caring who heard her words. “Run, run, run! You are Madeline’s sole chance now!”

The spriggan ran, mounting the swirls of ribbon as if it ran up a staircase that never ceased to move. Elizabeth held her breath, fearing that the ribbons were turn to naught and the fairy would fall into the sea.

But Darg was fleet of foot, swift enough to remain upon the ribbon. The ship sailed onward, vessel and ribbons and fairy swallowed by the darkness of the night, and Elizabeth thought she heard a distant cry of fairy glee.

“We ride to Caerwyn,” Rosamunde said firmly, turning her steed as she spoke. “We ride immediately and with all haste.”

“You will return the strings of my lute then,” James said sullenly.

“I will return them when I see fit and not a moment before,” Rosamunde retorted, then gathered her reins in her fist. “Ride on!”

Chapter Fourteen

Madeline was pale and Rhys was uneasy.

He watched her sleep as the ship took to the open sea, and was unable to keep from touching her. He tucked the fur lining of his cloak more thoroughly about her. He felt the cool of her brow, to assure himself again that the malady was past its worst. He felt for the rhythm of her pulse, though he knew so little of healing that whatsoever he felt meant nothing to him.

He hoped so fervently that she would be well that he did not trust his impressions either way. He watched, taut with concern, and feared for her health.

Though Madeline’s complexion had always been fair, it was lighter now, as pale of hue as a cloud in a summer sky. There were dark marks beneath her eyes, as if the quantity of her sleep was no indication of its quality. Her flesh had cooled, though now he feared her to be too cold.

Gelert nestled against her, its shaggy head in her lap, and looked askance at Rhys. It was as if the dog knew him to have served his lady false.

He could scarce argue the matter. Madeline’s ailment was Rhys’ fault. He did not cringe from the truth of that. He should have known better than to buy a posset from a healer whose arts he did not know, especially for the sake of convenience alone. He had thought it would be simpler if Madeline slept through the sale of the horse and arrangement of their departure. He had wanted her endless questions to cease, and he had wanted to be certain that she would stay where he had bidden her.

Madeline showed no signs of moving now, and asked no questions, but Rhys was far from content with what he had wrought.

He had thought no further than his own convenience. It was no excuse that he had only known healers of competence, that he had never seen a potion make a person more ill than he or she had been in the first place.

There was no excuse that could compense for his error.

The ship rocked and creaked. He could faintly hear the sailor’s shouting to each other on the deck above. The rhythm was not unpleasant and their small chamber was not as bad as it could have been. He could see no vermin, or any evidence of their presence, and the chamber smelled pleasantly of apples. Rhys knew well enough that a ship’s hold could smell far worse than this, but his old friend was particular about what wares he would haul.

The ship heaved on a swell large enough to indicate that they had gained the open seas. Madeline slumped sideways due to the motion, and the cloak slipped from her neck. Rhys crept to her side and tucked it around her once again. He caressed the softness of her cheek with a fingertip, noting the roughness of his skin in contrast to hers.

He felt the lump in his throat and the tightness in his chest as if becoming aware of it for the first time. He realized that he would do anything to see Madeline hale again. He would sell his soul without a care, simply to see her eyes flash once more, simply to watch her cast an apple at him with deadly accuracy.

He loved her.

Rhys hand froze at the unassailable truth of that. Against his own inclinations, he had fallen in love with the woman he had taken to wife. He loved her keen wit, he loved that she was unafraid to take him to task when she believed him to be wrong. He loved her good sense and practicality; he loved that she had adapted to the changes in her life without complaint or tears, he loved that she was strong and noble and loyal.

He sat back on his heels and watched her, knowing he would never tire of the sight of her, the feel of her against him, the echo of her breath in his ear. It was not her beauty, though that was considerable, it was her spirit that had snared his heart.

Rhys recalled what Madeline had told him about her own heart, and did not doubt that she had told him the truth. She was the manner of woman who would love once and for all time. Madeline was not fickle or reckless with her affections.

It would be James, not Rhys, who Madeline loved until her dying day.

He told himself not to be disappointed, for he should have known not to expect better for himself. Love was not to be trusted or to be publicly confessed. Love was a treasure to savor privately. Should the Fates be so kind as to not steal her away from him now—losing Madeline just as he realized his love for her would be consistent with Rhys’ fortunes thus far—he would be the best husband that he could be. He would grant Madeline a good life, he would cherish her. He would find his pleasure in making her as happy as he could.

None of that changed the fact that Rhys knew that the lady was unfairly his own. He heaved a sigh and frowned. He did not know for certain the name of the lutenist who journeyed with Rosamunde, but he could surely guess.

And what was the merit of his love for Madeline, if he kept from her the sole news that would make her happy?

Rhys sat in the chamber with his sleeping wife and did not like his recollections of how he had treated her. She had asked him for honesty and he had deceived her. She had asked him for his own tales and he had denied her. She had sworn that her heart belonged to one man alone, and he had stolen her away from that one man in order to keep her for himself.

In that lonely chamber, Rhys made a wager with himself. He did not doubt that Rosamunde would find her way to Caerwyn, nor that James would be fast by her side. Though Rhys feared that he might lose his Madeline upon that day, in spirit if not in truth, he had the duration of this journey to make a difference.

He would begin by granting his wife the one thing she had asked persistently of him. He would answer her questions. He would surrender the honesty she desired. Rhys did not imagine that Madeline would like the truth, but he owed her no less.

And if James did come, and Madeline did desire to be with her love, Rhys would not impede her departure. He would yearn for her for all his days and nights, but he would rather lose her and know her to be happy than witness her unhappiness at his very side.

He lifted her hand in his and caressed it. No man of honor avoided what needed to be done, simply because it might not proceed in his favor.

Rhys would tell Madeline the truth.

* * *

Madeline awakened slowly. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth and her head seemed light. She was hungry beyond belief and her limbs were cramped. Worse, she might have been abed in a cradle, for all around her rocked.

What had happened?

Madeline stretched and opened her eyes, her movement making the hound Gelert abandon her side. The dog stretched, shook and yawned with a vigor that made her smile, then sat and watched her expectantly. Madeline braced her hands on the floor and discovered that she did not rock—the chamber did.

The walls were wrought of wood. Madeline smelled apples, which made her belly rumble even more louder. She was wrapped in Rhys’ dark cloak, its fur lining close against her skin, and her stockings were twisted awkwardly around her legs.

Rhys was slumbering against the portal. The sight of him made Madeline’s heart clench. He looked rumpled, and the fact that he had not shaved in several days made him appear more disreputable than she knew he was. There were shadows beneath his eyes and a furrow in his brow, as if all the world’s weight sat upon his shoulders.

Madeline stood, clutching the wall to gain her balance, and straightened her garb. She folded Rhys’ cloak rather than stand upon it and discovered that her pillow had been Rhys’ saddlebag. There was a comb within it, much to her delight. She combed and rebraided her hair, certain that a morsel in her belly would make feel fit indeed.

But where was she? She tried to ease past Rhys to open the portal and he awakened with a start. His gaze flew over her, as if he could not believe the evidence before his own eyes, then he scrambled to his feet with uncharacteristic haste. “Are you hale?”

“Well enough.” Madeline smiled for he seemed unusually uncertain of himself. She was surprised that he did not touch her, but his fingers tapped as if he did not trust them to reach for her. “Hungry beyond belief, and unsteady on my feet because of it, but well enough beyond that.”

He smiled then, his eyes fairly glowing. “Good. That is good news indeed.”

The chamber heaved and Madeline gasped as she lost her balance. Rhys caught her close and braced his feet against the floor. The heat of him was welcome and she leaned against his solid strength. Still she felt a reluctance in him, a reluctance she did not share.

She kissed his throat and he shivered.

“I am glad indeed that you are recovered,” he said into her hair. “I erred mightily in buying that posset and I apologize for my folly.”

Madeline pulled back slightly to regard him as she assembled her scattered recollections. “You mean the posset that the innkeeper brought after our dinner, the posset that made me sleep.”

Rhys shook his head. “The posset made you ill. It was supposed to merely make you sleep.”

“You bought a potion to make me ill?” Madeline pulled out of his embrace, but Rhys nodded.

“I did indeed, though that was never my intent. I erred most gravely in trusting the skill of a stranger, Madeline, and ask your forgiveness.”

Madeline stepped out of the circle of his embrace, scarce reassured that he had seen fit to buy any kind of potion for her.

“Why would you do such a deed?” She did not expect him to answer her, for Rhys had proven to be adept in avoiding questions, but he colored and stared at the floor.

To her astonishment, he answered her. “I thought it would be simpler if you slept through the morning.” He sighed. “I knew you would ask many questions, that you might disagree with me about my chosen course, and that you might not decide to remain alone in the chamber of the inn, even if I bade you do so.”

“So you bought me a sleeping potion and deceived me as to its nature.” Madeline did not hide her annoyance. “You told me it was no more than hot cider!”

The back of Rhys’ neck flushed scarlet, but he did not look away from her. “I did. I thought it best. I was mistaken.”

The chamber heaved again, and Madeline was thrown against one wall so heavily that she was certain she would be bruised. She did not reach for Rhys this time, though, so vexed was she with him.

“What manner of chamber is this?” she demanded irritably. “Where are we that the very floor roils beneath us?” Before Rhys could answer, Madeline gasped in understanding. “We are on a ship!” She clutched the wall as the ship rocked again, then lunged for the portal.

She had to get out of the hold!

Rhys stepped in front of the portal. “What ails you? There is nothing to fear.”

“We are on a ship!” Madeline tried to push him aside, though her efforts were futile. “That is reason for fear enough.”

“There is no peril here. Our captain is well experienced and the weather is fair. We are not far from shore, yet we are far enough to evade rocks and shallows...”

Madeline snatched at the portal again, as she tried to push Rhys aside. “We are on a ship and that is peril indeed!”

Rhys caught her shoulders in his hands. “Have you been on a ship before? Why do you fear it so much?”

“I must leave!”

“Why?” Rhys shook her. “Why, Madeline?”

“Let me out!”

“Tell me.”

Madeline struggled against his grip to no avail. She quickly decided that the easiest way to pass the formidable obstacle of her husband was to win his agreement. “My parents were drowned last autumn. Their ship sank and all aboard died.”

“Ah.” Rhys considered this, taking overlong to do so, to Madeline’s thinking. “So that was why you protested our boarding.”

“Let me out!” Madeline’s breath began to come quickly, so great was her terror that she would share her parents’ fate. “I will not linger in the hold and wait to die!” She clutched Rhys’ shoulders and tried to shove him out of her way. “Move, Rhys, or I shall go mad!”

He moved, but caught her elbow in a fearsome grip so that she was obliged to remain fast by his side. “Come up to the deck with me and see what a fine day this is.”

There was a narrow corridor outside their portal, and a blessed patch of blue sky could be seen far ahead. Madeline hastened toward it and fairly fell upon the ladder.

“I will climb ahead of you,” Rhys said in a tone that brooked no argument. “So that you do not lose your footing on the wet deck. Follow close behind me.”

“Rhys, hurry!”

He paused and caught her in a tight hug. “We are safe, Madeline. You will see as much shortly.” Then he and his reassuring heat were gone, his shoulders blocking the sight of the patch of sky that was keeping Madeline from madness. She scrambled behind him, not caring whether she was graceful or not, and blinked as she lunged into the bright sunlight of a glorious day.

Rhys caught her around the waist and pulled her to one side of the ship, out of the way of the busy sailors. The wind was blustery, and the sails snapped with vigor.

“A beautiful day,” Rhys said, his very tone calming Madeline. He braced his feet against the deck and gripped the rail on either side of her, making her feel within the shelter of his embrace. He pointed to the shore. “See? There is the isle of Arran, unless I miss my guess. With this wind, we shall be home at Caerwyn in no time at all.”

Madeline took a shaking breath. The hills of the isle seemed especially verdant in this sunlight, and she could spy goats or sheep grazing. The sea, when she dared to look upon it, glittered as if its surface was wrought of gems. She did not look down into its dark depths, but across the sparkle of its surface. The air was crisp and cleared the last of the fog from her head.

She turned as the sailors began to sing in unison.

“They sing to ensure that they pull as one to hoist the sail,” Rhys said, anticipating her question. Then he raised his voice and joined the song, his rich voice filling Madeline with an unexpected pleasure. She watched, fascinated, as the sailors hauled on ropes and pulled a massive sail up the mast in steady increments. This second sail swelled in the wind, and snapped alongside the first, and she felt the ship move more quickly.

It was reassuring to have Rhys so fast behind her. His voice steadied her fears, just as his talk had eliminated Tarascon’s fear. She found herself leaning slightly against him and told herself that she seemed to be safe enough.

And in truth, there was little she could do about being on this ship. She could not swim and this ship was not directed toward the shore. She took a deep breath. He had spoken aright—it was better on the deck than in the cabin.

The song ended and the sailors knotted the ropes, shouting to each other to ensure the task was done well. “Now our speed will be considerable,” Rhys said.

“You never sang before,” Madeline said and he shrugged, as if discomfited by her attention.

“We have not known each other so long as that,” he said gruffly.

“But you know I am fond of music.”

He colored in a most uncharacteristic way. “My voice is a humble one,” was all he said, then looked across the sea.

Another detail about their departure from Dumbarton drifted into Madeline’s thoughts. “I had a curious dream, courtesy of that posset,” she said and knew she did not imagine that Rhys stiffened.

“Aye?”

Madeline tipped back her head to regard him, and noted that his eyes had narrowed. Had there been a vestige of truth in her dream? “I dreamed that those who pursued us, upon the six black destriers, came to the very wharf while we departed.”

Rhys’ features seemed to set to stone.

“I dreamed that they were not the king’s men, but that my aunt Rosamunde led the party. I dreamed that they rode stallions from Ravensmuir.”

Rhys’ lips tightened.

Madeline dared not fall silent now. She would utter the worst of it, and let him refute it. “And I dreamed that you knew the truth of it all along.”

He shook his head with such resolve that she thought he would deny her charge. “I have only known since Moffat. Before that, I too believed the king’s men to be fast behind us.”

Madeline stepped away from him. “You did know!”

“Indeed, I did.”

Madeline considered this. Her family gave chase, but why? Rosamunde had been the only one to endorse Rhys—she must ride in pursuit to rescind her support.

Something had made Rosamunde change her thinking about Rhys.

In face of that, Madeline felt new suspicion of Rhys’ motives. His easy confession was most uncharacteristic. “Why are you admitting to this deed? It is unlike you to answer my questions so readily.”

Rhys’ smile was almost a grimace. “I resolved that it was time I answered your queries. I have served you poorly, Madeline, both with the posset—though I never imagined it would be so potent—and in refusing to tell you what I know. You asked me for honesty, and I have made a poor task of granting that to you.” His manner was so sincere, that Madeline’s annoyance with him faltered. “I would do better, if you would grant me the chance.”

Madeline turned to face the sea, both hands grasping the rail. “You knew that my family pursued us, yet still you fled onward.”

Rhys nodded as he turned, taking a place alongside her.

“Do you know why they pursued us?”

He braced his elbows upon the rail and rubbed his chin with one hand. He shot a quick glance her way and his eyes were bright. She had the definite sense that he was uneasy. “I can guess.”

“Then, I would ask you to do so.”

Rhys pursed his lips, as if seeking the words. “First you should know that I doubt that they are your family, or your blood kin.”

He could not have uttered another thing more astonishing to Madeline. “How can this be?”

Rhys held up a finger for her silence, then turned to face the sea as he told his tale. “Once, many years ago, I was witness to a wedding. Dafydd ap Dafydd saw his sole surviving daughter wed to a knight name of Edward Arundel.” Madeline watched a smile touch Rhys’ lips in recollection. “They were a most happy pair. I remember their laughter. She wore a coronet of daisies in her dark, dark hair.”

Madeline felt slightly uneasy with this detail, her own ebony braid flicking in the wind behind her.

Rhys glanced at her. “The bride was well known as a rare beauty. She had eyes of the clearest hue of blue, so blue that they were oft compared to sapphires. Her name was Madeline, Madeline Arundel.”

The uneasiness within Madeline grew.

“Despite the couple’s happiness, theirs was a match that suited their families’ desire for alliance. Dafydd was intent in securing the new Welsh alliance with the Earl of Northumberland. Edward was the son of a prominent knight in the Earl’s household.”

“But that was the alliance that saw Henry Hotspur, the Earl’s son and heir, charged with treason and killed.”

“Nay, Hotspur was killed later, in 1403, though all was rooted in the same unrest.”

Madeline tried to forge a link between Hotspur and the charge against Rhys and failed. “You were too young to have fought even then.”

“But not too young to have seen the damage.” Rhys pursed his lips as he stared across the sea. “Many men died trying to regain the sovereignty of Wales in those years of warfare and strife. Villages were razed and much damage done in retaliation for the rebellion. I was raised in a land that echoed with absences, with the silence of those who should have been there. Last winter, even Dafydd ap Dafydd passed this earth, his dreams of a sovereign Wales turned to disappointment.”

Madeline leaned closer, intrigued despite herself. “But Dafydd ap Dafydd’s death must have left his daughter’s husband, Edward Arundel, as his heir.”

“It would have, if that couple had lived longer than the old man himself.”

“They are dead?”

Rhys nodded. “I followed them, all these years later, to Northumberland. Madeline Arundel lived but a year, her husband a few years longer.”

So that was why Rhys had been so far from home! He had been seeking his family.

“Then the holding reverts to the crown, does it not?”

“In England, it would. But in Wales, the blood in a son’s veins is of more import than the marital state of his parents. A bastard can inherit lands under Welsh law.”

“You are talking about Caerwyn,” Madeline guessed. “Caerwyn must have been Dafydd ap Dafydd’s holding. Are you Dafydd’s bastard son?” She knew Rhys would not answer such a personal query and was astonished when he did.

“I am his nephew. My father Henry was Dafydd’s younger brother. He had four daughters by his wife and one bastard son by his concubine.” Rhys met her gaze as he tapped his finger upon his own chest.

“But I would wager that you can inherit Caerwyn only if you are the last of your kin,” Madeline guessed. “You said that your sisters were dead and that Dafydd had only one daughter. Did Madeline Arundel have no children?”

Rhys smiled and regarded her so warmly that Madeline was confused. “She had one. Madeline Arundel died in childbirth, but the child lived. That child was a girl.” His gaze was steady. “My cousin bore her babe at Alnwyck and died in so doing, though the name of her child is not recorded.”

Madeline gripped the rail even tighter beneath his steady gaze, for she guessed what he meant to imply. “Alnwyck is near Kinfairlie,” she said. “You think I am that daughter.”

“Madeline’s babe was born in 1398.”

“As was I!” Madeline stared over the water herself, stunned by what Rhys suggested. What if her kin were not her kin?

He leaned down and murmured into her ear. “It was writ at Edward Arundel’s funeral in 1403 that the Lady of Kinfairlie took the deceased’s daughter to raise as her own.”

Madeline felt suddenly dizzy. It all made a treacherous sense.

“Why else would your kin be so ready to be rid of you that they would sell your hand at auction, as one would sell livestock? It is clear that they meant to save the expense of a dowry upon one who is not of their lineage.”

Madeline clutched Rhys’ sleeve as she turned to face him. “Then why did you wed me?”

He studied her, his expression wary. “You have wits enough to guess.”

“You wed me because if I am that daughter, then I am the sole other claimant to Caerwyn. I would be the only person who could keep it from your hand.”

Rhys inclined his head in agreement and anger roiled within Madeline. His motive was so cold, so calculated. She would have been more relieved to learn that he had wedded her out of lust.

“So, you wed me for Caerwyn, no more and no less.”

“That is true.”

“Though you believe me to be your cousin’s child! Surely such a match is sinful!”

Rhys shook his head. “Not where I was raised.”

“Barbarian!” Madeline cried.

Rhys turned to appeal to her, his very manner so guilty that she knew he did not even find himself so innocent as he would have her believe.

That infuriated her as little else could have done. “You bought me, to ensure your claim to the keep you so love. And you would plant your seed in my belly solely to ensure that your legacy passes through your lineage.”

Rhys sighed. “Madeline, not solely for that...”

She had no desire to hear his excuses. “You need not try to soften the truth with pretty words, Rhys FitzHenry!” she might have stepped away, but Rhys claimed her hand.

“Nay, I mean that this is not the worst of it.”

Madeline clutched the rail, uncertain what else he might confess. “Tell me.”

“I saw the party in pursuit of us in Moffat. Four people I recognize travel with Rosamunde, and one other whom I do not.”

Madeline caught her breath.

Rhys counted on his fingers. “There is Rosamunde, there is Alexander, there is Vivienne, there is your youngest sister who sees fairies...”

“Elizabeth.”

“There is another man I spied in Ravensmuir’s hall, a swarthy man who wears a gold earring.”

“Padraig. He sails with Rosamunde.”

“And there is another man.” Rhys’ expression turned somber, his gaze piercing. Madeline feared what he would say. “He is fair, his hair an uncommon blond, and he carries a lute upon his back.”

Madeline raised her hands to her lips in astonishment. She could never have prepared herself for that revelation! “Do you know his name?”

“I could guess.” Rhys’ tone was rueful. “Indeed, the return of your betrothed might explain why they pursue you with such haste.”

James. James gave chase.

James!

Madeline raised a fist to her chest, shocked by what Rhys had told her and even more by his deception. “But you knew, you knew this and said nothing. You guessed that James gave chase since Moffat,” she said, not hiding her dismay.

Rhys inclined his head in acknowledgement.

The wretch had lied to her! She had trusted him, she had surrendered to him, she had done all she could to ensure that their match had a chance, and Rhys had lied to her.

No less, he had lied to her about the one thing that might have changed her regard for him.

“You guessed as much, and yet you continued to flee their pursuit,” she said, needing to hear the indictment from his own lips. “You kept me from my one true love, and you did it by choice.”

Rhys nodded. “I did not say that I was proud of what I had done.”

“You faithless knave!” Madeline stepped away from her husband, fury consuming her and choking the angry words that rose in her throat. Tears glazed her vision. She had wed the wrong man, and had lost her true love by but a day!

“Madeline, I am sorry. I know that I erred...”

“Do not try to explain your crime!”

“In truth, I am not certain of the identity of the lutenist. We but guess, Madeline. Remember as much.”

“It could be no other lutenist,” she insisted. “There would be no other reason for Rosamunde and the others to give chase.”

Rhys grimaced at the truth of that. “I am sorry...”

“No!” Madeline took a deep breath and spoke with a calm that surprised even herself. “An apology will not make this come aright. Words will not suffice.”

“Then what would you have me do? Though it is belated, I grant you the honesty you desire.”

“I believe there is but one thing you can do. You had best make haste in finding yourself a mistress,” Madeline straightened and held her husband’s gaze. “You will never be between my thighs again and I understand that you have need of a son.”

“But...”

Madeline interrupted him, her words as sharp as a well-honed blade. “I was prepared to wager with you, Rhys. I was prepared to make an arrangement that we could both find amenable. But you have lied to me and you have deceived me, and you even admit to all the wrongs that you have committed. You have ensured that an amiable marriage is no longer possible between us.”

“But we are wed, and our match is consummated...”

“And if I am your cousin’s daughter, then we are too closely related to be wed by the laws of the church. Our marriage can be annulled for cause of consanguinity.”

Rhys looked so shocked that Madeline’s conviction wavered for a heartbeat. Could she do Rhys such injury?

But surely he only deceived her anew. Surely he only meant to change her will to suit his own? Surely he had anticipated this protest from her?

Surely he fought only for precious Caerwyn?

“Not in Wales!” he insisted with rare anger. “We acknowledge no such injunction against consanguinity! A man cannot wed his sister or his mother, but his cousin is well enough, if the match suits.”

Madeline stepped away, for if he touched her, she knew she would be lost. She was too susceptible to his potent caress. “We were not wed in Wales, Rhys. We were wed by the priest in your aunt’s convent, a priest who answers to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Rhys seemed to be stunned by this prospect, but Madeline warned herself to not trust whatever appearance he gave. “But that cannot matter...” he said, doubt in his tone for the first time since Madeline had met him. He spun and considered the horizon, his brow furrowed. “But you would not annul our match,” he insisted, his gaze searching hers. “You could not do so.”

Madeline smiled tightly. “Why would I remain? What reason have you granted to me, Rhys FitzHenry, to find myself gladdened to be your wife?”

His mouth worked for a moment, and she feared that he truly was surprised. “We meet well abed.”

“Marriage must be more than that, especially as you already vowed to me that I could not rely upon you to be faithful to me alone. You may have need of sons, but I am not certain that I have need of a spouse. Find yourself a whore, Rhys, and she may keep you content.”

Leaving her husband staring at her in annoyance and astonishment—and fuming more than a good bit herself—Madeline marched away from him. Her fears of the ship were forgotten for the moment, so severe was her anger.

How could Rhys have so betrayed her trust?

* * *

Madeline made her way back to the cabin, her tears only spilling when Gelert welcomed her with such enthusiasm. She sat with the dog and tried to summon her memory of James’ beloved face.

To her horror, Madeline could not remember what James looked like. Indeed, another man’s grim visage filled her thoughts. Madeline tried to recall the sweet magic of James’ voice.

She could not hear him, not in her memory. Instead, she heard the lilt of a deeper voice, one that recounted a tale with humor and passion.

Madeline desperately sought some recollection of her beloved James, her fear easing only when she envisioned his slender fingers upon the strings of his lute. She smiled and closed her eyes, knowing all would come aright. James would come to her at Caerwyn, for Rosamunde knew Rhys’ destination. Rhys himself had supplied the detail Madeline needed to have their marriage annulled.

Something twisted deep within her, for Madeline knew she had become fond of Rhys. But he himself had sworn that he had no intent to love his spouse. He desired Caerwyn and sons, no more and no less. His wife would be a vessel, no more and no less.

James was the man for her, Madeline knew it well.

They would be united soon, and they would be together for all eternity. Rhys, she suspected, would not even miss her. Against all odds, Madeline’s sole desire would be her own.

How curious then that her heart did not sing in anticipation. Madeline remembered the gift from her mother, then, and her fingers shook as she unfastened the velvet pouch around her neck. She poured the Tear into her hand and was reassured by the sight of the gem.

A fierce light burned deep within the stone, brighter than the glimmer she had seen before. It was a golden light, a vigorous glow that told her that all finally came aright.

Her tears must be tears of joy, and only fell with such enthusiasm because of her hunger. Madeline told herself as much, time and again, and stared at the bright star in the stone.

But she could not believe it and she did not know why.

Chapter Fifteen

Rhys had little to lose. At this point, he told himself, his marriage with Madeline could only improve.

Unless, of course, it ended.

Rhys was not quite prepared to face that prospect, not without fighting for the lady’s favor. In his view, he had the duration of this journey to win her heart, and he had no intent of losing a moment granted to him.

How could he have forgotten the differences in consanguinity laws between the Welsh church and the Roman one? How could he have erred so soundly? How could he have wed Madeline within a chapel that answered to Canterbury and never seen the flaw in his choice?

He was losing his wits in the presence of this woman.

And worse, he did not want to be without her, at any price.

Rhys fetched two bowls of the stew the sailors had made with salted cod, two tankards of ale and a loaf of bread. When a man tried to take issue with Rhys’ portion of bread—of which there would be no more before they reached another port—Rhys gave him such a glare that the man slunk away like a whipped hound.

Rhys marched down the lurching corridor, carefully balancing his burden, and acknowledged that he was more fearful of what he might face in the small cabin ahead than any battle he had faced in all his days.

He rapped upon the door, though Madeline did not answer.

Rhys had not truly expected her to do so. He thought he could discern the sniffle of tears, and cursed himself for granting his lady such injury that she wept.

It was his duty to see her smile again, if nothing more. He braced his feet against the rolling deck and cleared his throat, for he knew just the tale to recount to her.

“Once there was a man, whom all believed to be blessed with keen wits. His wife thought him the most clever man in all their valley, though soon she was to be proven wrong.”

Rhys heard a little sniff of laughter from behind the door, which was better than the tearful sniffle he had heard earlier. He dared to be encouraged.

“This man was not only clever—at least in the estimation of his friends and neighbors—but he dearly loved to see others merry. So, his heart was good, if his wits were soon shown to be somewhat less so. This man befriended a group of fairies, who lived beneath a hill near his home. It is told that he had done them some favor, though I do not know its nature. Suffice to say that the fairies felt inclined to indulge him and offered him his heart’s desire.”

The ship was obviously struck by a swell, Rhys lost his footing slightly, and some of the stew went over the lip of the bowl. The pain where it landed upon his hand reassured Rhys that the meal was not yet cold, though he winced until the burn’s sting subsided.

He knew that Madeline would be afraid of the ship’s motion, and he continued his tale with haste, hoping to distract her from her fears.

“And so, this man thought about his friends and neighbors, and how much he liked to see them merry, and he asked the fairies for a harp that would play of its own accord. Those who loved to dance in his valley had long complained of musicians who grew tired before they did, and he thought this a fitting gift that would make all merry. He was sufficiently good of heart to wish to share his good fortune.

“The fairies bade him go home, and when the man awakened the next morning, he found a harp beside his hearth. He knew from a single glimpse that this was no mortal harp—it was wrought of gold and the strings shimmered even when they were still—and he was delighted. That very night, his friends and neighbors gathered to see the marvel, and the man laid his hand upon it. No sooner had he touched the strings than the harp began to play a merry tune. Every soul gathered there could do naught else but dance.”

Rhys juggled his burden again, hoping that Madeline was listening to him, and further that she would find favor with his tale. “The music from the harp was so merry that the people danced with uncommon vigor. They leapt and spun, they stamped their feet and clapped their hands, they danced until they swore they could dance no longer. But they could not halt, not so long as the harp played. Their feet were enchanted by the music, so they danced and danced and danced.

“When they cried that they could dance no longer, the man lifted his hand from the harp. It fell silent, then and only then, and all agreed that it was a marvel. The wife thought that her spouse was a rare prize, for not only had he won his heart’s desire, but his desire had been one to make more merry than simply himself.

“And so it went that the friends and neighbors came calling when they had need of a dance, and the man brought his enchanted harp to every gathering in the valley. All enjoyed the music, all benefited from this gift of the fairies, all danced as they had never danced before. All thought the man wondrous, but slowly, he began to doubt that he was invited to join festivities for his own sake. He began to believe that people asked him only so that he would bring his harp. He began to think that his friends only feigned friendship, that their true affection was for the fairies’ gift. He began to think his friends and neighbors unappreciative that he had shared his good fortune. This shadow seized hold of him and would not relinquish its grip.

“And so one night, he laid his hand upon the harp strings as so many times he had before. His friends and neighbors danced, for they could do nothing else, and they danced and they danced and they danced. But when time came that they were tired, and they called out to him to halt, the man pretended that he had not heard them.

“The man let the harp play on and on, he coaxed it on without remorse, he compelled his friends and neighbors to dance endlessly. So deep was his conviction that they invited him solely for their own pleasure that he resolved to grant them their fill of dancing. The older and the weaker began to collapse in exhaustion, but the man did not heed them. Even the virile began to weep that they could endure no more, but the man only laid his hand more firmly across the strings. When the dawn touched the sky, the man finally let the harp fall silent.

“He looked up, seeking his vindication. To his horror, his friends and neighbors had not only fallen to the floor, but some of them were dead. Many more were nearly so. There were holes in the leather of their shoes from the force of their dancing, and even those who were alive could scarce move. His wife was among those who had died in the mad dance.

“The man was sickened by the folly of his deed, his heart weighted like a stone.” Rhys paused to lick his lips and juggle the bowls again. He could hear Madeline’s breath beyond the door, as if she anxiously awaited his next words.

“And the following morn, the morn of his wife’s funeral, when the man awakened, there was no golden harp upon his hearth. He never saw the harp again, and he never had the chance to aid the fairies again. He had no friends after that trick, and his neighbors distrusted him. Not a one of those who had danced on that fateful night ever danced again.

“The man was alone. He missed his wife sorely, far more than he missed the harp. He lived very long, though he did not prosper. Too late he learned that he was neither so clever nor so good as his wife had believed him to be, too late he learned that his heart’s desire had been his all along.”

Rhys finished his tale and considered the stew. It was cooling, the steam no longer rising from the bowls with such enthusiasm. There was silence behind him, a silence that told him that he had failed in his first attempt to soften Madeline’s anger with him.

Then she opened the portal. Her eyelids were puffed and reddened, her lips tight. Her lashes were dark spikes, still wet with tears. Her flesh was pale, a reminder of the posset that had so weakened her and her distrust of ships, and her fingers seemed to tremble upon the door. Rhys was certain that she was the most beauteous woman that ever he had seen. He knew himself a knave for having so deceived her and knew his tale to be a poor offering.

It was the only one he had, beyond himself and he knew Madeline could not desire so little as that.

“Is that by way of an apology?” she asked.

“It is meant to be but a start,” he said, hardly daring to hope.

Madeline studied him, though Rhys could not guess her thoughts. “You tell many tales of people losing all they hold dear. Do you think then that no good fortune can endure?”

Rhys frowned, for current evidence seemed to confirm that possibility. “I have oft believed as much, for that has been my experience.”

“But?”

“Perhaps the lesson is that one should savor whatsoever one is granted, for one cannot say how long any goodness will last.”

She smiled then, though her smile was sad, and she rubbed the hound’s ears as if only Gelert could grant her solace. “Can a person not hope for better, instead of fear that matters must become worse?” Her eyes were bright and she watched him, as if anxious to know his answer.

Rhys licked his lips, uncertain what she wanted him to say, wishing desperately that he knew the correct answer. “That would be a fine skill to learn.”

She tilted her head. “What have you endured, Rhys, that you hope for so little?”

“No more than most,” he said with a shrug.

Tears filled Madeline’s eyes then and she averted her gaze. Rhys feared that she would close the portal and he spoke before he could consider the wisdom of what he offered.

“I will confess to you what you have asked of me time and again,” he said abruptly, making a pledge to her before he could swallow the impulse. Madeline met his gaze, her own eyes bright. “I will tell you why I was named a traitor.”

She said nothing, though her eyes widened. Rhys could not understand her mood and he feared that he would err again if he said more.

Perhaps she did not wish to know his tale any longer.

Perhaps she did not care.

Perhaps he deserved no less for the wound he had granted her.

“Are you hungry?” Rhys offered the stew and ale, the bread being tucked beneath his elbow, and the hound stretched to its toes to sniff the food. “It is humble fare, but it is yet a little warm.”

Madeline’s glanced at the bowls of stew. “I am hungry, as must you be. We had best eat it, afore the hound finds all of it upon the floor.” She studied him with rare intensity. “And then I will have your tale, if you are still inclined to share it.”

Rhys nodded, words abandoning him utterly for the moment. Madeline smiled then, a sight to warm him to his toes. She stood back and let him enter the small chamber, and Rhys’ heart thundered fit to burst.

The lady granted him a chance, and he meant to ensure that she never had cause to regret it.

* * *

Rhys FitzHenry had vowed to confide in her. Madeline could scarce believe it. She would have more readily believed that this was another man, one who resembled Rhys in appearance only. It was so unlike Rhys to share his own tales, no less to volunteer to do so.

Madeline wondered why he felt so compelled. She was curious, though. She barely tasted the stew he had brought, though it put a satisfying heat in her belly. Madeline was not so annoyed that she could not admit herself glad of Rhys’ company. She felt safer with him beside her, for even if the ship foundered, Madeline believed that Rhys would not abandon her.

There was much to be said for a man who could be relied upon.

They ate in a companionable silence, the hound glancing up when Rhys ran the last bit of the bread around the inside of his bowl.

“I thank you for bringing the food,” Madeline said. “I was more hungry than I had believed and I feel much better.”

Rhys nodded. “One’s fears are always less when one’s belly is full.”

“I suppose that is true enough.” Madeline said no more, merely waited, for she was not truly convinced that Rhys would keep his promise. It was as much against his nature to share such secrets as it was a part of his character to keep his vows.

If he did confide in her, she wanted it to be because he chose to do so, not because she had entreated him.

So, she sat in silence, showing a patience she had not known she possessed.

* * *

It took him some moments to compose his thoughts, then Rhys lifted a finger. His own memories were entangled in the greater history and he wanted to recount a coherent tale. “You must know already Owain Glyn Dwr, and his dream of Welsh sovereignty.”

Madeline nodded at his sidelong glance. “Hotspur was allied with him, and thus named a traitor.”

“Indeed,” Rhys agreed, appreciating that his wife was not witless. “Owain Glyn Dwr and his allies meant to replace Henry IV with Edmund Mortimer as King of England. Further, they intended to divide England between them—Scotland and the north to the Earl of Northumberland, Wales and the west to Owain Glyn Dwr, and the rest to Mortimer. The scheme failed, of course, for it was too bold and Henry IV was too wily.”

“It is bold to try to unseat the king.”

Rhys chuckled. “Though Henry IV had done much the same. He himself deposed Richard III in his own favor.”

“If one succeeds, there is no charge of treason.”

Rhys nodded and sobered. “At any rate, Owain Glyn Dwr came oft to my uncle’s abode, filling the air with his dreams of what Wales might be, for they had fought side by each and were old comrades. Owain knew all the history of our people, he could recount all the old tales. He had a rare charisma and a resonant voice, and people listened to his words.

“There is a tale that Arthur and his knights are but sleeping within Eryri, and that they will awaken to aid the true prince of Wales. It was said in those days that Owain was that one, the man chosen to reclaim Welsh independence. It was whispered that he was a sorcerer, so potent was the spell that he cast over his audience. He cast a potent spell over me, to be sure.”

Rhys paused for a moment, then frowned at his own memories. “Owain was no sorcerer, though he was a man who knew how best to say what people wished to hear. They loved him for it. They followed him, they fought for him, and many of them died for him.”

He looked to the lady beside him and was startled to find her watching him, listening avidly to his tale. He looked away, unable to hold her bright gaze.

“I should begin sooner, the better for you to understand. Wales has been a kingdom for ages beyond recollection, though oft it has been without a prince. In the hearts of the Welsh is the certainty of their difference and the weight of their pride. The Normans were but the latest to try to claim the land of Wales: they enslaved the Welsh, or kept us in fetters, or reduced our status to serfdom, but their suzerainty was never assured. Rebellion was constant.

“Llywelyn ap Gruffydd was our last leader, acknowledged as Prince of Wales by the English kings until Edward I declined to make such acknowledgement. Llywelyn withheld tribute in protest, was declared a rebel, and killed in 1285.”

“Edward I made few allies in Scotland either,” Madeline murmured.

“He was a king determined to unite the isle beneath his hand, one can say that much for him at least.”

“At least,” Madeline agreed, and they shared an unexpected smile. Rhys felt a tenuous bond between them and he dared to take her hand within his own.

She did not resist. Indeed, her chilled fingers curled around his own, as if taking comfort from his heat. She was finely wrought, this wife of his, as delicate and beauteous as a spring blossom. He thought of losing her and hastened on.

“Llywelyn’s head was carried in triumph to London; his only daughter was confined to a nunnery; his nephew Owain was imprisoned at Bristol; his brother was dragged through Shrewsbury, then hanged, drawn and quartered. The crown’s message was clear: there would be no more seed of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, no more rebellion, no more Princes of Wales.

“And lest anyone doubt his intent, Edward had fortresses built around Eryri, a circle of iron and stone that reminded all of his suzerainty and his power. Caernarfon, Aberystwyth, Harlech, Conwy, Beaumaris, Flint, Rhuddlan. Even the few Welsh keeps there, like Caerwyn, were captured and fortified in the English king’s name. Every child learned the names of those Norman castles, every child saw their pennants, ornamented with the English king’s insignia, snap against the sky. Every Welsh child learned to resent what they represented.”

“Foreign authority, tithes and taxes sent abroad.”

“More than that.” Rhys smiled that Madeline was no fool. “Towns grew behind the high walls of these fortresses, towns occupied solely by English men and women. There were ports, served by English ships, who sold goods to English merchants in those towns. Welshmen were not allowed to enter the towns, much less to live there or make their trade there; we were not allowed to hold title to land. With every issuance of military forces and plague through those fortress gates, Welsh discontent grew.”

“No man of sense could have predicted otherwise,” Madeline said softly. “That is a harsh hand laid upon the land.”

“Further, on the line that had once been the border with England, lands had been granted to Anglo-Norman noblemen. These Marcher lords, their holdings upon the Welsh March, owed little suzerainty to any king.”

“They could do whatsoever they desired,” Madeline guessed and Rhys nodded. “We have such lords upon the Scottish March, as well,” she said ruefully. “The crown is dependent upon them for whatever peace they keep. I would wager that between the March and that ring of fortresses, the Welsh were allowed to build a few baronies.”

“Indeed they were, though the English judges and English law seldom ruled against their own. And so it was that Owain Glyn Dwr, Lord of Sytharch, a man of some comforts and a Welshman besides, knew that his boundary dispute with a neighboring Marcher lord would never be resolved in his own favor. He took up arms against the offending neighbor and against all expectation, he won.”

“Ha!” Madeline cried.

Rhys smiled fleetingly. “Flush with triumph, he called himself Prince of Wales and swore that he would recapture the independence of the land he so loved. His army swelled with each passing day and each victory. They ultimately drove the English from all lands between the Marcher lords and the sea. They even captured Harlech, which Owain made his own, as well as Aberystwyth, and Caerwyn.”

“And Caerwyn became your uncle’s holding.”

Rhys nodded. “He and Owain had fought together and Caerwyn was his spoil. Owain established a royal court at Harlech. He put the red dragon upon his pennant, he sent emissaries to the Pope and to the French king. He resolved to found a university, the better to educate the priests for the Welsh church, which would be loosed from the bounds of Canterbury. He dreamed boldly, and he dreamed the dreams of a thousand Welshmen. He called himself ‘the mighty and magnificent Owain, Prince of Wales’.”

“He was not lacking in modesty!”

“Not he! He was embraced by Fortune, charming, the closest to a king any of us had seen. His court was filled with musicians and poets, seers and sages, beautiful women and bold knights. It seemed that he launched a golden age, that the old Wales of tales had been reborn beneath his hand.”

“Did all support him?”

“There were tales of those who spurned his vision, all of whom met sorry fates. But there was a time, in 1405 or a little later, when it seemed that all Owain touched would turn to gold, that naught he touched could go awry.”

“And then it did,” Madeline prompted, then smiled. “It is my sister Vivienne who always guesses the next part of the tale. I apologize, for I know it to be an irksome habit.”

“I am not irked,” Rhys said, enchanted with the sparkle of her eyes. “But you speak aright, for then matters did go awry. The tide turned slowly but surely against Owain, and his forces lost more often than they won. His son was captured in 1406, his brother killed in the same battle at Usk. Sytharch was razed, and the English seized Harlech in 1408. Worse, Owain’s wife, two of his daughters and three of his grandchildren were taken to the Tower of London to die. Those of his men who survived became mercenaries, either traveling to France to fight against the English, or begging in Wales. They were known as Plant Owain, and the Welsh people treated them with kindness, for all knew they had tried to make a change.”

“But what happened to Owain? I would wager little good.”

Rhys shrugged. “No one is certain. He was offered a pardon by the king in 1415, but he never revealed himself. There are those who say he died in Dunmore in 1414, others who say he surrendered his life on hearing of his wife’s death—still in captivity—in 1413. Some insist he lives with another of his daughters in Herefordshire. I never saw him again myself, not after that rout at Usk.”

“But Owain could yet be alive,” Madeline said. “It was not that long ago.”

“That is what the seers say. There is a tale...”

“There is always a tale, when you are speaking!” she teased. Rhys felt his neck heat. He made to apologize for his tendencies, but Madeline laid her other hand upon his arm. “I like that you tell tales, Rhys. You have an uncommon talent for it. You should sing more oft as well, for your voice is fine.”

His neck heated in truth then, and it seemed his words stumbled from his lips. “There is a tale that Owain fled the battle of Harlech, devastated that he had lost all that he had gained. He was burdened with remorse that his wife and kin had been captured, certain that he could not have failed them more. And as he climbed into the mountains, unknowing where he went, he met an abbot. It was early in the morn, the sky still dark, so when the abbot greeted him, Owain said ‘You are too early, Abbot’. And the abbot smiled and shook his head and said ‘Not I. It is you, Owain Glyn Dwr, Last Prince of Wales, who have arrived too soon.’”

Madeline shivered, then considered Rhys. “You did not see him after Usk, you said. Did you fight for him?”

Rhys smiled ruefully. “All men old enough to swing a blade fought for him. I had the good fortune to survive my youth.”

“You fought with Thomas,” Madeline guessed.

“We fought in the rearguard. It was at my uncle’s insistence, for I had seen only fifteen summers, and it was the reason we survived.”

“You were able to flee when the battle was lost.”

Rhys nodded. “Thomas and I lost count of how oft each had saved the hide of the other in those years. There is no other man to whom I could better trust my back. We were young, we took foolish chances, but we had both bravado and Fortune at our sides.”

“That was why you were named a traitor?”

“Nay. It was later, in 1415 that I earned that charge.” He held up a finger. “But let me tell you first of my uncle. Despite his alliance with Owain, Dafydd did not lose Caerwyn when Owain lost all.”

“But how could that be? Did he change loyalty to the king?”

Rhys nodded. “Some say that Owain lost because my uncle withdrew his support, others say that Dafydd perceived the direction of the wind and acted in his own best interest alone. I cannot say what compelled him, but he sought an audience with Henry IV and secured his own future with a pledge of fealty in 1407. He was permitted to keep Caerwyn as a feudal grant from the English king. If Owain Glyn Dwr had ever crossed the threshold, however, Caerwyn would have been immediately forfeit.”

“Would he have come?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “It would be safe to say that they two, once such fast friends and allies, had become estranged.” Rhys looked down at his hands. “I argued with my uncle then, the sole time ever. I was certain that he had betrayed all that I thought he believed.” He fell silent then, reliving that heated exchange. He had been so young, so rash, so certain he was right.

“What did he say?”

“Poni welwch-chwi’r syr wedi’r syrthiaw?” Rhys whispered, his voice hoarse.

Madeline leaned against his side. “It sounds so beautiful, like music in words. What does it mean, Rhys?”

“It is from an old poem, writ when Wales was lost to Edward I. ‘Do you not see the stars fallen?’” Rhys took a deep breath. “It is a lament, an elegy for the lost majesty of Wales. The last line of the verse is Poni welwch-chwi’r byd wedi r’bydiaw? ‘Do you not see that the world is ended?’”

“Oh!” Madeline seemed to be fighting her tears.

Rhys continued grimly. “My uncle said that he believed the time for rebellion had passed, that we could not defend Wales against England and win. The power and the wealth of the English crown was too great, and we could best preserve what we loved of Wales by ceding suzerainty.”

“How?”

“He said that paying tithes and ensuring order would sate the English king, and turn his eye away from us. Dafydd said that then we could teach our children, and train them for the king’s own posts, and gradually gain more wealth than ever we would win with war.”

Madeline pursed her lips. “It seems a most pragmatic course. Were you persuaded?”

Rhys laughed shortly. “Nay! I thought he made a tale that excused his own betrayal, and I told him as much. But then I left Caerwyn, and I journeyed through Wales, and I witnessed the devastation left by the war. Crops failed, plague raged, and the English merchants had left the towns in Wales, taking their coin and their trading agreements with them. More people died after the war of starvation than had been killed in the battles.”

Rhys frowned and let his thumb slide across the softness of Madeline’s hand. “But I was sufficiently young to believe that all of our woes had been inflicted upon us by the cursed English, not that our own deeds had had any part in shaping our misfortunes. When the Henry IV died in 1413 and Henry V succeeded to the throne, it appeared that the son was the very mirror of his sire. He declared that no less than all of France should be his inheritance, and planned to reinvigorate the war with the French crown.”

Rhys sighed. “We had all been taxed and tithed beyond belief in the name of these ambitious kings. When I heard that there was again a scheme to place a Mortimer upon the English throne, I pledged my aid. I thought to see the madness halted, for the Mortimer clan had a blood claim to the crown and surely could not be so lustful for power and wealth as the spawn of Henry of Bolingboke.

“The Earl of Cambridge, Lord Scrope of Masham and Sir Thomas Grey of Heton were the trio at the heart of the scheme, though there were many of us. We aimed to sink the king’s ship upon his departure to France.”

“You were caught.”

“Upon the very eve that the plan was to be enacted.”

“But you must have been betrayed!”

Rhys nodded slowly. “Indeed we were.”

“You know who betrayed you.”

Rhys met her gaze steadily. “I alone broke our vow of silence. I only confided in another soul, for I believed that he would aid our cause. He had clung to the bright dream of Owain Glyn Dwr and it was rumored that he alone knew the location of the old rebel’s abode. He swore to keep my secret, but he lied.”

“Your father!” Madeline breathed, her grip tight on his hand.

Rhys nodded. “We were snared when we gathered on the wharf. Thomas and I escaped in the darkness, though the others named us and a price was put upon our heads. The three leaders were executed, and their blood is upon my hands. Thomas took his monastic vows and was forgiven.” Rhys inhaled deeply. “I had no intent to become a monk.”

“But you were never caught?”

“In Wales, I am safe enough.”

“You have been nearly captured in England,” she guessed. “Why did you risk the journey to Northumberland?”

He might have imagined the lady to be concerned for his fate, but Rhys knew that he saw only what he desired to see. Madeline had great compassion for all, he knew this well. Rhys looked away from her concern and spoke gruffly. “I had to be certain of my cousin’s fate.”

“You had to secure Caerwyn, at any cost. Oh, you are a fool to risk your hide for a title!”

Rhys kept his gaze averted, not wanting to know for certain whether she was scornful of his ambition or concerned for his life. “Henry pardoned the others, a few years past, and I had hoped that my name would be cleared. Perhaps that day yet will come. Perhaps the king has forgotten me.”

Madeline snorted. “No English king forgets any man who raises a blade against him. Do you truly believe that Henry will grant you suzerainty of Caerwyn?”

Rhys met her gaze, letting her see the steel of his determination. “It is not my intent to grant him a choice. I trust you have the wits, even if you are my cousin’s daughter, not to challenge my suzerainty either.”

Their gazes held, a shimmer of will in the air between them, and Madeline straightened beneath his gaze. “You have never been granted your desire, Rhys, but I can change this detail. I cede all claim to Caerwyn, and I will sign a deed to that effect. I know that Caerwyn is the sole dream you hold within your heart. You have treated me kindly. This will be your compense.”

She told no lie, Rhys knew it well, yet his triumph was as dust in his hands. He felt no need to shout in victory, he felt no satisfaction that he had achieved his goal.

Instead, he watched Madeline turn her back upon him and felt that, yet again, he had erred.

“I will sit vigil while you sleep,” he said, knowing there was little else he could offer her.

“I will not sleep in this place,” she argued, though her exhaustion was clear.

“You have need of sleep, my lady, to heal from that potion. I will remain with you, and remain awake. I pledge to you that I will ensure your safety if ill fortune befalls the ship.”

“Why?”

“Because, for this moment at least, you are my wife.”

“And thus, your duty?”

“And thus, my concern,” he corrected with some annoyance. “I do not wish you ill, Madeline. Can I not grant you some courtesy without suspicion?”

The anger melted out of Madeline’s shoulders as she regarded him. “Of course you can.” An unexpected smile lifted the corner of her lips. “I thank you, Rhys.”

Though it was a pale shadow of the dazzling smile she could offer, still it rendered Rhys mute. He silently offered his cloak to her and Madeline wrapped herself in its generous fullness, even as she yawned. She tried to make herself comfortable opposite him on the chamber’s floor, and he watched her for a moment, before lifting her into his arms. He braced his back in the corner, setting a finger against her lips when she might have protested.

“I would have you be warm,” he said and wrapped his arms around her. She sighed in capitulation and laid her cheek against his chest, her one hand furled like a new leaf within his own. In but a trio of heartbeats, her breathing had slowed and the lady slept.

Rhys was content, smelling her sweet scent and the lingering perfume of apples, Gelert nestled against his leg and Madeline curled in his lap. He was so content that he wished they would never arrive at their destination.

He recalled the moral of his own tale, and he savored the gifts granted to him, knowing all too well that Madeline might soon be gone.

Chapter Sixteen

They sailed southward for four days and nights. Rhys assured Madeline that the sea was particularly calm, though she started at every ripple on its surface. She preferred to be on the deck, and mercifully, their journey was blessed with such good weather that she could remain outside.

Madeline stood at the rail by the hour, the sun warming her hair and Rhys bracing his hands on either side of her. His voice was always in her ear, his tales and his songs enchanting her utterly. Every rock seemed to remind him of a song; every bay, every cliff, every tower prompted him to tell her a story.

There was an urgency about Rhys, though Madeline believed it was because he drew near to his home. It was proximity to Caerwyn that brought a tremor to his voice, it was love of this land that brightened his eye. It was the prospect of seeing Caerwyn that made him shout on the fifth morning as they rounded a point.

They disembarked, Madeline finding herself infected with Rhys’ anticipation. Arian was clearly pleased to have hooves on solid ground again. Gelert shook as Rhys bade the captain farewell and the men shook hands. Madeline found herself anxious to hasten onward but for a different reason than Rhys, for surely Rosamunde and James had reached Caerwyn by this time.

She made no protest when Rhys lifted her into the saddle, then swung up behind her. He clamped a hand around her waist and touched Arian’s sides with his spurs. They galloped, all intent upon making haste to Caerwyn.

They reached the summit of the point of land that jutted into the sea, and the glittering bay spread before them made Madeline catch her breath. The water was a deep blue hue, the sunlight making it look to be cast with thousands of gems. The cliffs around it rose steeply from its surface, the hills behind were verdant. Far above them all loomed Eryri, its flanks the hue of slate, a crest of snow still on its highest peak.

Directly opposite them, a fortress with four square towers seemed to rise from the very sea, its towers apparently hewn from the stone cliffs. Pennants snapped in the wind above those towers.

“Harlech,” Rhys murmured, following her gaze. He pointed to another fortress, so much further down the coast that it was barely visible. “Aberystwyth.” It all seemed so familiar to Madeline, for she remembered Rhys’ tales, and she half expected to see the old rebel Owain step out of the gorse to greet them.

Rhys’ indicated a keep below them and to the left. It was more humble than the others, a fortress that could be overlooked by a hasty gaze. A high square wall encircled a single tower. The gates were open, and a small village clustered outside the fortress walls. Madeline could see the harbor and faintly hear the bell of the chapel ringing.

“Caerwyn,” she guessed.

“Caerwyn,” Rhys agreed. He shouted and spurred the horse. Gelert barked, Arian surged down the hill, hooves thundering. Madeline laughed, savoring how delighted they all were to be home. She twisted to see Rhys, for she loved to see his smile.

“Home,” he said, an odd sadness in his eyes, then he kissed her so soundly that Madeline understood she would never taste him again.

She would leave him at Caerwyn and he knew it. Madeline knew she should have rejected his salute, but she could not turn away. She could not resist Rhys’ kiss, could not imagine being without it, for he awakened a yearning within her that she feared no other man could sate. Madeline turned so that she could wind her arms around his neck, she pressed herself closer to him and made this last kiss one she would never forget.

Later Madeline would realize that that kiss had betrayed them. Later she would realize how unlike Rhys it was to ride unprepared, his helm in his saddlebag and his sword sheathed. Indeed, he could not draw his sword, much less swing it, with her seated before him and his arms wrapped so tightly around her.

Later, she would see how fully they had erred.

* * *

They were within the village before Rhys spied the trap.

His head spinning from Madeline’s sweet kiss, he had wondered where the villagers were as they had drawn near to Caerwyn. He had puzzled over the relative silence of the surrounding hills. There should have been shepherds tending their flocks, there should have been fishermen mending their nets, there should have been women emptying slops and trading gossip.

But there was not a soul abroad.

Arian galloped into the village with such fury that none could have missed their arrival. Rhys heard a whistle, feared deception, then mercenaries erupted from all sides.

They were surrounded in no time at all.

Gelert barked furiously. Arian reared and whinnied. Madeline screamed. The destrier was useless in such close quarters, for it could not be turned. The sole advantage Rhys saw was that his attackers were not mounted.

He knew what—or who—they wanted.

Rhys leapt from the saddle in a smooth leap and only stumbled slightly. He unsheathed his blade before he found his footing fully, swung and killed a mercenary.

“Rhys!” Madeline screamed.

“To the hills!” Rhys shouted the command to Arian in Welsh. The destrier’s pace faltered and it hesitated to obey. Rhys had never dispatched it without him before, and Madeline was pulling the reins, trying to turn the horse back. Its nostrils flared at the chaos surrounding it, and Rhys thought it could probably smell the blood.

He dispatched another pair of mercenaries to meet their Maker, and glanced back to find Madeline trying to urge the reluctant steed toward him. She kicked a mercenary in the face who tried to grasp her, and spat at another.

Doubtless his intrepid wife would try to save him, given the chance! Rhys ground his teeth and struck another telling blow. There was sweat on his brow already, and the mercenaries were yet spilling out of houses and the fortress gates. He could not hold them back for long, but he would not grant them the chance to despoil Madeline.

Rhys shouted his command again, swinging his blade with gusto against his assailants. Gelert understood Rhys’ command and snapped at the horse’s legs. Arian shied, uncertain who to obey, fought the bit and kicked a mercenary fool enough to try to grab the reins. The dog snarled and leapt, Madeline granted a wound to an attacker with her small eating knife.

To Rhys’ relief, the destrier suddenly decided that the dog was the most insistent threat, and that the best plan was to evade Gelert’s teeth. Arian turned tail and galloped into the hills beyond the village, Gelert snapping at its heels. To Rhys’ relief, no one else pursued the steed. He heard Madeline shout in frustration, but knew she would not be heeded.

He roared to draw every eye to himself and fought with new vigor. The mercenaries fell upon him, his shoulder was cut and his thigh was nicked. Rhys fought until he could no longer hear hoof beats, until he knew for certain that his Madeline had escaped Caerwyn.

Then Rhys cast away his blade and held up his hands, letting himself be captured. They could do whatsoever they desired with him now. He knew Madeline had been saved.

* * *

The destrier was a crazed beast.

Arian galloped as if the hounds of Hell were behind it, although only Gelert was in pursuit. Madeline pulled the reins, she stood in the stirrups, she shouted and begged, but the horse did not heed her any better than it had previously. It ran up the path to the mountain, away from Rhys and Caerwyn, and over the crest of the first hill without slowing its pace.

A stranger urged his smaller horse off the road ahead, out of the path of the racing steed. The man seemed surprised and Madeline thought he had never seen a steed like this warhorse of Rhys’. She waved madly at him, hoping he might have some scheme to halt the horse.

The man whistled and the horse halted so abruptly that Madeline was almost cast over its head. She fell back into the saddle with a resounding thump. Arian stood, ears twitching and sides heaving, then nickered at the other man.

“You vexing beast!” Madeline cried and the stranger laughed. He was a dark-haired man, tall and slender, though he carried himself with some authority.

Madeline knew, though, that he must be Rhys’ friend. Only Thomas, in her experience, had been able to command Rhys’ steed. Gelert trotted to the man’s side, tail wagging, the dog’s response also calming Madeline’s fears.

This man looked to be slightly older than she, and the gaze he cast over her was appraising. “And how did an English maiden come to ride the horse of Rhys FitzHenry?”

“I am from Scotland.” Madeline dismounted and cast the reins over the destrier’s head as she strode to the other man. “You must be one of my husband’s friends,” she said. “He has been beset in the village at Caerwyn, and I fear he has been captured. We must aid him!”

Instead of making haste down to the village, the other man frowned. “I feared their scheme was as much. I thought to waylay him on his ride homeward.” At Madeline’s confusion, he gestured to the road behind them. “This is the best passage through the hills, and Rhys oft uses it.”

“We came by ship,” Madeline said and the man nodded, though he was clearly not reassured.

“Ah, forgive my manners!” he said suddenly and forced a smile. “I am Cradoc ap Gwilym. I am sheriff of Caerwyn.”

“But you are Welsh. I thought only the English could hold offices in Wales.”

Cradoc smiled. “And so they could, until Dafydd ap Dafydd chose to make the best of what would be, and so they were, until Rhys FitzHenry argued for a place for me. I owe him much. You call Rhys husband. There are those who will lose a wager when that man takes a wife.”

Madeline almost smiled. “Nonetheless, he has taken one. I am Lady Madeline, born of Kinfairlie and now Lady of Caerwyn.” As she claimed her title through Rhys for the first time, she felt her chin rise with a measure of his pride.

Cradoc smiled and bowed. “May God in his grace grant you many sons and many years of happiness.”

Madeline understood that this must be his customary blessing for married couples, but still she sobered. “God can do no such thing if Rhys is killed by his assailants. Who are they?”

“They came from Harlech just days past and evidently came to await Rhys’ return. They have hidden themselves and those bold enough to protest their presence have disappeared.”

“But surely they would have arrested the sheriff?”

Cradoc grinned. “They would have had to catch me first.” He gestured further down the road. “I invite you to accompany me, my lady. Now that we know their intent, perhaps we can reason how better to foil their scheme.”

Madeline whistled to the dog, cautious about proceeding to some more private place with a man she did not know.

Cradoc surveyed her so thoughtfully that she wondered whether he guessed the root of her hesitation. “There are others hidden over the crest of the hill, already. I halted them on this road this very morning. You may know them for they, too, came from the north.”

“Who?” Madeline demanded, even as her heart began to pound in anticipation.

“Madeline?” Vivienne cried and Madeline spun to find her siblings racing toward her. They surrounded her with noisy enthusiasm and Madeline smiled to see them all again.

“Are you hale enough?” Alexander asked.

“Were you injured?” Vivienne asked.

“Darg!” Elizabeth cried. “Darg is on your shoulder!”

Alexander caught her close and spun her around. Vivienne kissed her cheeks and hugged her tightly. Madeline picked up Elizabeth in her turn.

“Tell me that Kerr had no chance to hurt you,” Alexander insisted, his gaze intent.

Madeline smiled and kissed his cheek. “I was safe all along,” she said with surety. “I was with Rhys.”

Rosamunde forced her way into the tight circle of siblings. There was a suspicious shine in her eyes and her embrace was uncommonly forceful. “Did I not tell you as much?” she whispered into Madeline’s hair.

“I told you the lass was as strong as good Toledo steel,” Padraig said roughly. This faithful cohort of Rosamunde’s winked at Madeline, the way he shifted his weight telling her that even he had been fearful of her fate.

Then her family stepped back, so that Madeline could see the last member of their company. James was taller and slightly broader than he had been, his smile was more ready and his tan was darker. Madeline waited for her body to respond to his presence, but she had felt more relief in encountering Rhys’ friend Cradoc than in her betrothed.

“Well met, Madeline,” James said, then bent low over her hand. He kissed her knuckles and Madeline felt nothing at all. Not a shiver was awakened by his touch and no heat awakened in her belly. It was all too easy to recall Rhys’ suggestion that James had never kissed her as Rhys had done.

No less to find it true.

It was shock that slowed her response, to be sure.

Madeline deliberately closed her fingers over James’ hand and forced a smile to her lips. “It is good to see you, James.”

He laughed. “Only good to see me? I think it wondrous to be in the presence of your beauty yet again. You are as lustrous as I recall, my Madeline, as luminous as the moon.” He made to strum his lute, glancing across the company to ensure that all watched him, then grimaced when his fingers coaxed forth no sound.

Vivienne laughed. “Rosamunde has yet to return the strings!”

James sneered. “Any soul is a heathen, clearly, who cannot appreciate a fine tune.”

“James had more interest in his music than your safety,” Alexander said grimly. Madeline watched her siblings turn against her betrothed, their opinion of the man more than clear.

“Would it not have been fitting for me to greet Madeline with a love song, composed only for her?” James demanded, taking affront at their manner. Madeline noted that their reserve did not melt. “An ode to Madeline’s spectacular beauty would have been a fine greeting, but I have no such offering to make, thanks to your interference.”

Madeline was beginning to find his references to her beauty annoying. “What is of import in this moment is how we shall aid Rhys,” she said firmly, then told the others that Rhys had been captured.

“These are sorry tidings,” Rosamunde said, then turned to Cradoc. “You feared that something dire was afoot.”

“They came from Harlech. Robert Herbert, the lord there, has long tried to prove himself the heir of Owain Glyn Dwr, if not by blood than by deed. He hungers after all of the fortresses held by Owain, including Caerwyn.”

Rosamunde frowned. “But how could he have known when to expect Rhys’ return?”

“A runner came days passed, bringing a missive from Lady Adele’s sister,” Cradoc said. “She is an abbess near York.”

“Miriam!” Madeline said and the sheriff nodded. “We were wed at her abbey, over her protest.”

“But who is Lady Adele?” Vivienne asked.

“She must be Rhys’ mother, the mistress of his father,” Madeline said.

Cradoc nodded. “There are only the two women left at Caerwyn, Henry’s wife and his mistress. One of them must have sent word, perhaps even inadvertently, to Robert.”

“They may all be imprisoned,” Rosamunde mused and the group looked as one at the crest of the road. They could not see Caerwyn but Madeline felt as if a shadow had slipped over her.

“Surely no one will injure Rhys?” she said.

“There is no heir to Caerwyn after him,” Cradoc said.

Madeline barely kept her hand from stealing over her flat belly. Could she carry Rhys’ son already?

Would Rhys be pleased if she did?

Madeline dared not think of that. She turned to her aunt, needing to know the truth. “Rosamunde, I would ask you to recall my birth, if you could. Rhys said something most strange to me, and perhaps you can recall whether it is true.”

“What is that?”

“He thought me to be the child of his cousin Madeline...”

“The daughter of Rhys’ uncle, Dafydd ap Dafydd, who wed Edmund Arundel and went to Northumberland,” Cradoc cried. At Madeline’s nod, he became more animated. “Any surviving child of that union could challenge Rhys’ suzerainty of Caerwyn, for Dafydd was the last lord and his other children have all died.”

“Madeline Arundel died in childbirth with her first and only child,” Madeline said and Cradoc crossed himself with some sadness.

“She must have been Catherine’s first choice to be your godmother,” Rosamunde said to Madeline. “I knew that I was your mother’s second choice, for her dearest friend had recently died, though I did not know more of that friend.”

Madeline nodded, for this made sense. Rosamunde never asked for more detail on any matter than she was granted, perhaps because she herself tended to confess to others only what they needed to know. “Madeline’s husband, Edward, died five years later, in 1403. Rhys said that my mother took Madeline’s child back to Kinfairlie, for the child had been orphaned.”

“And he thought you might be that child.” Rosamunde guessed, then shook her head. “It seems unlikely. I attended your christening, after all, and you were only days old.”

“But you must recall Ellyn,” Alexander said with sudden urgency. His eyes were bright.

Madeline turned to him, a ghost stirring in her memory. Ellyn. The utterance of that name made her vaguely recall another child, a quiet, small child.

Rosamunde shook a finger at him, evidently remembering the matter as well. “That tiny child! She was so sickly, and of an age with Madeline. I teased Catherine that she had brought home a changeling, not a mortal child, and that the fairies would steal her back one night.” She shook her head. “I had forgotten all about poor little Ellyn.”

Alexander grinned. “And she would never play with us, remember?” He nudged Madeline. “I probably granted her more attention than any other soul at Kinfairlie, so convinced was I that she should join our games. You were not even five summers of age, Madeline, and you, Vivienne were younger still. Malcolm was a babe.”

“I do not recall her,” Vivienne said with a shrug.

“I think that I do...” Madeline admitted.

“You preferred to play with Vivienne,” Alexander reminded Madeline, then sobered. “It was only later that I understood that Ellyn did not play because she was ill.”

“She died very shortly after her arrival at Kinfairlie,” Rosamunde said. “Hers was a short sad life.”

Alexander nodded. “I remember Madeline Arundel, as well, for she and mother rounded at the same time and oft visited with each other.” He shook his head, seeming snared by some fond memory. “She was a kind woman. She always brought candied angelica because I loved it so and no one at Kinfairlie knew how to make it. She would feign surprise when I found it amongst her embroidery. I remember how Maman wept when she died.”

“She was a kind woman,” Cradoc affirmed. “I remember her well. And such a laugh! She lightened hearts wheresoever she went.”

“I think Maman was still round with you when we had word of Madeline Arundel’s death.” Alexander said. “I recall Papa arguing with our castellan about telling Maman some dire news so close to her time. He insisted that she must know, while the castellan said it would only do her injury.” He tapped a finger on Madeline’s shoulder. “You must have been named in memory of Maman’s friend.”

Madeline liked the notion well, whether it was true or not. “But Ellyn died?”

Alexander nodded, his manner sad. “There is a stone in the churchyard at Kinfairlie for her, a small one with a cherub upon it. Maman used to pray there in memory of her friend and little Ellyn, as well.”

Cradoc shook his head. “Ah, I recall Madeline and Edwards’ nuptial feast. You never saw a happier pair. They were so smitten each with the other, so glad to face life together. It is sorry indeed that they had so few years together.”

“Perhaps they savored each moment fully,” Madeline suggested softly and the others nodded at that prospect.

The company stood in silence for a moment, grieving for the lost couple and their child. Madeline imagined that the wind even took a mournful tone. When next she was at Kinfairlie, Madeline resolved she would visit the stone laid in memory of Ellyn, the tiny quiet child she had almost forgotten, and she would say a prayer for all of them.

* * *

Rhys’ captors were rough, but they did not do him much injury. He suspected that he was wanted alive, for some purpose, though he could not guess what it was.

A good twenty mercenaries surrounded him and marched him through Caerwyn’s gates, which he supposed was a compliment to his fighting abilities. He was not surprised that he was forced down the ladder to Caerwyn’s dark dungeon, nor was he surprised that he was shoved into its one cold chamber. He was not surprised when the oaken door was slammed behind him, and the cell plunged into darkness as the key was turned in the lock.

He was surprised when a voice cleared behind him.

Rhys jumped and pivoted, his hand falling to his empty scabbard and closing upon no weapon at all.

“Rhys?” His mother asked, her voice trembling. “Rhys, is that you?”

“Mother!” Rhys stepped into the murky darkness, hands outstretched. His mother made a sound suspiciously akin to a sob, clutched his hands, then fell into his embrace. She was smaller than him, still soft and perfumed as always she had been.

But she was shaking, shaking to her very marrow, and she wept as he had never heard or seen her weep before. Rhys held her tightly and said nothing, for there was little reassurance he could grant.

Rhys knew this cell well enough to know that there was no escape from it, that the sole way out was through the portal, that the lock was doughty. He knew that they would remain here until it pleased their captor to release them, and he understood enough of people to guess that any release would not be a merry event for himself and his mother.

The door would be unlocked because they were dead, or because they were to face their execution. His sole consolation was that Madeline had been spared this fate.

Perhaps she would be happy with James.

Perhaps he should not torment himself with such thoughts in what were likely to be his final hours.

His mother, however, had other ideas. She straightened finally, sniffled, then poked him in the chest with an imperious finger. “You were married! And I had to learn the truth of it from my sister!” Adele made a sound of disgust in her throat. “How could you have done this to me? You know how she loves to know all about everyone, how she savors holding some morsel of news that others have not yet heard. How could you have failed to send me a missive yourself?”

“The matter was complicated,” Rhys said. “And it may not be of import, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Madeline seeks an annulment.” He felt his mother’s shock, could imagine her expression as she pulled back slightly.

“This cannot be true! My son has not consummated his match?” Adele shook her head with such vigor that Rhys felt her gesture. “You are hale enough, Rhys, and you like women well enough. Surely there can be no reason for her to find fault.”

“I suspect she is the daughter of Dafydd’s daughter, Madeline Arundel. That was why I wed her.”

“You wed her to secure Caerwyn,” his mother guessed. “That was why I had no warning of it! You did not even tell me the nature of your quest when you left. Hmmm, Miriam does not know that detail.”

“But if it is true, my Madeline and I are too closely related to be wed by the consanguinity laws of Rome.” Before his mother could scoff that such laws had no sway in Wales, Rhys laid a finger upon her shoulder. “We were wed in Miriam’s abbey, by a priest answerable to Canterbury and thence to Rome. She will gain this annulment with ease. I erred in forgetting the difference in ecclesiastical law, and now I will lose my wife.”

“You must indeed have been blinded by love to have made such an error in your determination to be wed with haste. It is unlike you, Rhys, to omit any detail from a scheme.”

Rhys felt his neck heat, for he had been a fool and could have done without his mother’s agreement on that point.

Adele made a sound of disgust. “What use of you is a wife who does not see your merit?” She patted his shoulder. “Is the girl blind? Is she witless? You are a valiant warrior, you are easy to look upon, and you possess a holding that will see her fed...”

“Mother, we are in the dungeon of that holding,” Rhys felt obliged to note. “It seems unlikely that I will ever be its lord in truth.”

“It is unfair!”

Rhys could feel his mother fuming at the injustice served to her only son. Indeed, her protectiveness made him smile, for it was not all bad to have some soul think well of him.

“It is all the fault of that witch Nelwyna,” she said with vigor.

“Father’s wife?” Rhys frowned. “She is responsible for this? I always thought her most amiable.”

“Hardly that! Every soul in this keep thought her so sweet and kind, but I oft saw her looking at me with malice in her gaze. I never liked her, but I was polite for your father’s sake. He seemed to think her deserving of compassion, and here we stand, reaping the fruits of that compassion! He should have spurned her when she granted only daughters, he should have cast her out when my first two sons died...”

“What first two sons?”

“You had two older brothers, but they died young. One came dead from my womb, strangled by the cord. At the time, the midwife said something foul about Nelwyna being of no aid, but Henry bade her bite her tongue. And then the second boy died, while Nelwyna held him, just moments after he had come screaming from my womb. Even Henry could make no argument then, and he ensured she was not in the chamber when you were born.”

“I had no knowledge of this,” Rhys said in astonishment.

“No one was certain, no one but the midwife. Henry was cautious, and protective of you. I only believed the truth years later.” That finger rapped him on the chest again. “Do you recall when you were injured as a boy, when you fell from the saddle?”

“Of course. It was of no import.”

“Ha! That was what she wished all to think! There was a thorn beneath the saddle of the horse chosen for you to ride.” His mother tapped his chest again. “Do you recall being ill after we celebrated the victory of Owain and Dafydd, when first we gathered at Caerwyn and made it our home?”

“I was young to drink so much ale,” Rhys noted. “Of course, I was ill.”

“You were ill because you were given tainted ale! We discovered the truth only when you slept overlong and a woman in the kitchen confessed her part to Henry. She had thought she partook in a jest, and feared she would be party to a murder. She named Nelwyna, but Nelwyna denied all.”

Adele fairly growled in her vexation. “And Dafydd said he could not act upon the testimony of a serving wench who had probably sampled too much of the ale herself. Nelwyna was known to be unkind to the women in the kitchens, and Dafydd thought this indictment an attempt at feminine vengeance.” She shook his tabard. “But again, you almost died! Praise be to God that you have the vigor of my family!”

“Again, I knew nothing of this.”

“Henry did not wish to poison your thoughts. It was the sole matter upon which we argued, for I felt you should be warned.” She tapped him on the chest once again. “Then there was the accident during your training, when that marshal used a real sword against you while yours was only wooden.”

“I thought it a test.”

“He had been bought,” Adele spat. “Though I dare not say with what. Dafydd forbade him to return to Caerwyn and had a discussion with Nelwyna. He also sent you away to fight with Owain Glyn Dwr, for finally the threat she posed was understood.”

Rhys was astonished, for he had never guessed the peril that had faced him in his youth. “And Nelwyna is also responsible for our imprisonment?”

“I thought her improved since Henry’s death, for always I believed that jealousy of my time with him was at root. But then Miriam sent her letter, and when I awakened from my afternoon sleep, it was not where I had left it. I guessed that she had read it, for she shares Miriam’s love of gossip.”

Adele sighed. “I did not guess that there was greater import than that, not until Robert Herbert and his knights arrived at our gates.” Adele swallowed. “And she welcomed him, with open arms and open thighs.” She spat into the corner of the cell. “And she calls me the whore!”

Rhys mused over this revelation. “It makes some sense. Herbert has always desired Caerwyn. She must have told him that if he acted in haste, it could be his own.”

“And she has always wished to be Lady of Caerwyn, so she told me when I was imprisoned here. They have made a bargain, those two villains, and to see their ambition achieved, you must die.” Adele clutched Rhys’ tabard again, and her fear echoed in her voice. “But we will not die, will we, Rhys?”

Rhys held his mother more tightly, for he dared not lie to her. He could not see how they could avoid dying, not without aid, and he could not guess who might aid them now.

His mother understood the import of his silence, and he whispered nonsense to her as she began to weep anew. Never had he felt so powerless before. Never had he faced such despair.

The sole consolation was that Madeline had not been captured, as well. By spurning him, she had saved her own hide from Nelwyna’s ambition, and for the first time, Rhys was glad that Madeline had chosen to pursue that annulment.

It seemed he would not have long to mourn her absence, after all.

* * *

“What care have we of these people’s woes?” James said with sudden impatience, then claimed Madeline’s hand. “Caerwyn and Rhys FitzHenry are not our concern, not any longer.”

“Rhys is Madeline’s husband!” Vivienne reminded the other man with impatience.

“I am her betrothed.” Curiously, James' claim awakened no response in Madeline.

Cradoc snorted, there obviously being no doubt in his thinking which role had superior claim.

“You never contacted Madeline to tell her that you were yet alive,” Elizabeth said, then put her nose in the air. “I cannot even see your ribbon and Darg has just spat upon you. You are fortunate that my manners are rather better.”

James gave the girl an odd glance, then smiled at Madeline. “You are rid of a husband this way, Madeline. Our fate lies north, in my father’s abode.”

“In your father’s abode?”

“He has promised me a stipend, upon wedding you.” James winked. “He likes you well, and I like the notion of an annual stipend even better.” He laughed, but no one shared his jest.

“But what will you do?” Madeline asked with care.

“I will create music.” James smiled a winning smile.

Madeline considered him, recalling Rhys’ assertion that every man must fight one day to protect what is his own. She was beginning to understand the impulse of her heart, to see clearly what she should have guessed long ago. “Surely you learned to do battle in France, and have some hunger to continue to do so?” she asked politely.

James laughed merrily. “Me? I managed to evade my father’s men, at the earliest opportunity. I spent my time in France in the churches, listening to their heavenly music.”

“Then you were not even at Rougemont,” Alexander said, his voice cold with accusation.

“Why else do you imagine that I yet breathe?” James asked, his manner scathing. “I am not in such haste to die for coin and land.”

“Though you welcome the assets brought by both,” Madeline said quietly. James granted her a sharp glance and she straightened. “And what shall I do in your father’s abode? Your mother has enough ladies-in-waiting and daughters underfoot.”

James seized her hand as if he would lead her into a dance. “You shall sit and be beauteous. You shall smile upon the company, and all shall bask in the splendor of your beauty. You shall inspire me. You shall receive odes and poems from me, and if you feel such necessity, you will embroider some frippery or another.” He waved his hand dismissively, then smiled anew. “You, Madeline, will be my muse.”

It seemed a rather thin prospect, compared to Rhys’ dream of building prosperity for those beneath his hand, for ensuring that all had justice and sufficient food in their bellies. Madeline was certain that his wife would have greater responsibilities than choosing a piece of cloth for embroidery.

“We could have a child,” James suggested, apparently seeing Madeline’s lack of enthusiasm. “After all, I am certain that you are still a maiden, are you not, my beloved?” His manner became more anxious. “There will be no doubt as to the paternity of any child you bear, will there? Will there?”

“I am no longer a maiden,” Madeline said calmly, watching James all the while.

He averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “But surely you cannot have conceived a child already? It has been only a few days.” He seemed reassured by his own reasoning. “Why, you must have only met abed the once! All know that a maiden cannot conceive when first she is sampled.”

“Of course she can,” Rosamunde said with a laugh. Cradoc and Padraig covered their smiles with their hands and looked across the hills with feigned fascination.

James colored and his lips set. His gaze was hostile now. “How many times have you coupled with the wretch?”

Vivienne and Elizabeth listened avidly, their eyes wide as if they knew they should not heed Madeline’s words but could not bring themselves to do as they should. Madeline felt her own color rise, for this was not a matter that should have been discussed before so many souls.

“My husband and I met numerous times abed, so many times that I lost the count,” Madeline said, feeling a stubborn urge to witness how James faced the truth. She had done nothing wrong in treating her legal husband with honor! “Rhys is most anxious for sons. We were wed. How could I deny him his nuptial due?”

James blanched and released her hand. He stepped away, his hand upon his brow, and was clearly distressed by these tidings.

“Had you been so concerned with my maidenhood, you might have troubled to send word to me that you yet lived!” Madeline turned her back upon James. She found herself trembling, so great was her anger. Vivienne slipped a hand into hers, then gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze.

Rosamunde stood with Cradoc, her brow furrowed. “I will aid Rhys, if it can be done, before my departure,” she said. “I owe him a boon, for he ensured that my name was never linked with the failed coup in 1415. I would never have been permitted to drop anchor in many ports without that surety.”

“Aye, that is true enough,” Padraig said with a nod. “Our necks are not stretched thanks to his silence. I, too, will help.”

“I will aid Rhys, as well,” Elizabeth said with uncommon resolve for her age. “He is the get of fairies,” she said when the others regarded her in surprise. “There may not be much I can do, but I will do whatsoever I can.”

“Do not forget me!” Vivienne said. “I will not stand aside while a man who can tell such stories is cheated and killed.”

Alexander smiled at Cradoc and then at Madeline. “My blade is in Rhys’ service.” He tapped a jingling sack of coins upon his belt. “Let us see him hale first, then I will return his coin and win your annulment, Madeline.”

Madeline regarded the sack of coins with horror. Now that the prospect of annulment was so imminent, it did no seem so desirable, after all.

Chapter Seventeen

Cradoc and Rosamunde conferred, then crept to the crest of the hill to watch the proceedings far below. When they returned long moments later, Rosamunde looked resolved and Cradoc seemed skeptical.

“The sole unguarded path into the keep will be through the drain,” Rosamunde said, speaking in a tone that allowed no argument. She flicked a glance between those pledged to aid Rhys. “Someone must enter the fortress through the sewer that leads to the sea, then open the gates for the remainder of us.”

“I will do it,” Alexander said. Vivienne and Elizabeth protested, but he shook his head. “It is too dangerous for either of you and I am more slender than Padraig. Cradoc must remain with the rest of you, for he alone knows who is friend and who is foe.”

“He speaks good sense,” Cradoc said to Rosamunde.

“It happens on occasion,” she agreed with a wink for her nephew. The company turned to climb to the crest of the hill, but James seized Madeline’s elbow and held her back.

“I see no reason why we should risk our own hides,” He said sourly. “Let us flee now, Madeline, let us make haste to my father’s abode. Leave your siblings to resolve this matter, if they insist upon it. The horses are unguarded, we could be gone before they could halt us.”

The very idea of abandoning her family after they had come so far to aid her, no less Rhys, was utterly abhorrent to Madeline. “I thought you only desired a maiden for your bride,” she reminded James, pulling away from his grasp.

James nodded, then shrugged. “True, but a man must make some sacrifices to ensure his father’s favor. I will still wed you, though you are soiled.”

He could not have chosen a worse word.

“I am not soiled! I have been saved from the folly of wedding you!” Madeline turned her back upon the astonished James and ran after her family. She caught Rosamunde’s sleeve in her hand. “Rhys loves nothing more than Caerwyn. I would see it safely in his keeping. I am smaller yet than Alexander. Let me take this task.”

“But, Madeline, it is too dangerous!” Alexander protested.

“I can hold my breath longer than you, you know it well.”

Alexander colored at Cradoc’s confused glance. “I used to sneak into the bathing chamber and dunk my sisters while they sat in the tub. Madeline learned to hold her breath and remain so still that I oft feared I had killed her.”

“Then Papa near killed him for so tormenting us,” Vivienne said.

Cradoc smothered another smile and Padraig chuckled openly.

“It is not amusing, if the prank granted her a useful skill,” Rosamunde said. “I say that we let Madeline do this deed.” The others nodded, but before they could speak, James interjected.

“Madeline! You cannot do this thing!” He snatched at her arm, as if he would forcibly restrain her.

Madeline removed her arm from his grasp. “Rhys saved me from Kerr’s assault. I owe him no less than to reciprocate in kind.” She granted her former suitor a cool glance. “You desire me only to ensure your own leisure, but what will happen when your father dies? What will you do if he ceases to admire your music? Do not say he will never do so—how else did you find yourself in France? It has happened before and it will happen again.”

Madeline turned her back upon James and met her aunt’s approving gaze. She removed the velvet sack from around her neck and kissed it before passing it to Rosamunde. “I would ask you to take this in safekeeping for me.”

“It is warm,” Rosamunde said as she fingered the velvet.

“It probably carries my own heat,” Madeline suggested but Rosamunde shook her head.

Smiling, Rosamunde loosed the cord and let the stone fall into her palm. The entire company gasped in awe at the magnificent stone. Madeline could not believe how it had been transformed. It could have been a drop of sunlight. Indeed, the gem was so radiant that no one could look directly upon it.

Rosamunde laughed. “It was like this upon your mother’s wedding day,” she said, her voice husky.

She dug in her purse and removed something gold. It was a setting for the stone, wrought of golden wires that caught the stone in a fine cage. Rays extended out from the stone, like beams of light spreading from the glowing stone. The whole pendant hung from a fine golden chain, which Rosamunde put around Madeline’s neck. The stone nestled in the hollow of her throat, its heat warming her through.

“You need have no fear of losing this now,” Rosamunde said, “for its radiance will light your path and its chain is short enough that it cannot slip away.”

“But the chain could break,” Madeline whispered, fingering the stone as she feared losing such a prize in the sewer of Caerwyn.

“These bonds are stronger than you can guess.” Rosamunde kissed Madeline’s brow. “You have chosen aright, child. The Tear declares as much more clearly than can be spoken. It is time to aid Rhys.”

* * *

Madeline was terrified.

She and Alexander crept down the steep hillside, that they could slip into the sea unobserved. With every step she was certain that they would be spied, that some archer would dispatch an arrow with deadly accuracy and their quest would be lost.

But they reached the shore with no more incident than scratches on their hands and knees. They left most of their clothing hidden on the shore, each wearing only a chemise. Alexander insisted that they each keep their belt and a small knife.

“You must move quickly,” he counseled, concern furrowing his brow. “We do not know where the drain will end, though likely it will be in the lower realms of the keep.”

“In the dungeon?” Madeline guessed.

Alexander grimaced. “We shall hope that it is not within a cell.”

Madeline shook her head, though she was far from certain. “It cannot be, for then prisoners could easily escape.”

“Unless there is a grill fixed atop it.” Alexander’s frown deepened. “There should be air within the drain, for is must run level with the ground to come from the keep to the sea. Remember to turn your face upward, if any water comes rushing down the drain.”

“Will it?”

“Who can say?” Alexander caught Madeline’s shoulders in his hands. “I wish I could do this. I wish that you were not to be in such peril.”

“But the way may be narrow, and I may have to hold my breath long...”

“I know, I know.” Alexander forced a smile. “I wish also that you did not make such good sense, Madeline.” He hugged her tightly and his words were hoarse. “Be safe. Be swift. Be blessed in this task.”

Alexander took Madeline’s hand before she could answer him, this brother who could easily make her chest tighten with the vigor of her love for him. He led her into the sea, the waves pulling and pushing at them as they waded ever deeper.

They kept only their heads above the surface, though the waves oft deluged them. They clung to the rocks of the coast like barnacles upon the hull of a ship. Madeline hoped that their dark wet heads, if any noted them, would look sufficiently like those of otters or seals that no alarm would be cried.

They had only to follow their noses to find the opening of the drain. Turds bobbed on the ocean surface, closer together as they drew near to the gaping dark hole. It was bored into the cliffs and unobstructed by any grill.

“It must have been wrought by the Romans,” Alexander said with awe. “Papa always said they were more plentiful in Wales, for they mined metals here.” He slid his hand along the stone, admiring how it had been chipped away. “Caerwyn must be old.”

Madeline nodded. “Rhys said as much.”

At the mention of her spouse’s name, the siblings looked at each other. “Are you certain?” Alexander asked. “The hole here is large enough for me.”

“It will not remain so,” Madeline insisted. She kissed his cheek, knowing that her effort might be doomed to failure. “Father taught you more than you realize,” she said softly. “Kinfairlie, and our siblings, are safe in your hands, Alexander. Be well.”

Madeline plunged into the dark tunnel, before her brother could say something that might make her weep. Her breath came quickly already, though she knew that she would have to control it to find success. Her heart thundered in her chest, so loudly that she feared the sentries would hear its pulse carried through the dirty water in which she moved.

The tunnel closed more tightly around her with every step, the smell of slops assaulted her, the water moved less vigorously and thickened to a slurry. It was up to her knees and it was cold, though she supposed it would have been more revolting had it been warm. She could not hear the sea any longer, she could not spy a glimmer of light. There was only the smell of the water and the gentle incline of carved stone beneath her feet.

And the impetus that was Rhys tugging her onward. The stone around her neck cast a faint glow, a ray of light that kept her from madness. At least she did not proceed blindly.

Madeline’s fears remained at bay until the tunnel narrowed abruptly to the width of her shoulders. She stood hunched in the larger corridor and considered the hole from which muck spilled. There was no other way onward. She reasoned that this must be beneath the keep itself, for she felt she had walked forever. Perhaps the type of stone had changed here. Perhaps the hole narrowed even more farther ahead.

She refused to consider that she might become stuck. She had to help Rhys. Panic would serve them both poorly. Madeline climbed into the hole, stretched out supine. She half-dragged herself, half-writhed, the stones digging into her back, and somehow she made progress. She was not certain how far she moved or how fast, the darkness assailing her as it had not before.

Madeline began to be afraid.

Water rushed suddenly over her, water smelling of urine and dirty pots. Madeline grimaced and clung to the stones, holding her place as it washed over her with a vengeance. Her heart raced, she thought of her parents trapped beneath the darkness of the sea. Had their last moments been like this? She feared to drown, she knew that she would never be found that none would aid her...

And then she recalled Rhys, telling her tales aboard the ship. She thought of his conviction that they were safe, and she was reassured. She heard again the rhythm of his voice and the memory made her smile.

Indeed, she could have wed worse. She could have wed James.

If she and Rhys saw their way through this challenge, if still he desired her as his wife, Madeline knew that she would remain gladly by his side. Perhaps one day, he would come to love her. Perhaps she should appreciate the man’s deeds and his valor more than any sweet words he could offer.

Perhaps she should see the merit of what she had been granted and savor it.

She closed her fingers around the stone that her mother had worn and found strength in its glorious heat. Madeline realized that she had misunderstood its earlier portent.

The stone had been dark at first, because she had already decided to flee Rhys. The Tear must have predicted Kerr’s assault.

The Tear had lit with a glimmer after Rhys had saved her from Kerr. She and Rhys had been wed then, the first step in their sealing their fates together.

The star had brightened within the gem when Rhys had confessed his errors to her. Could it be that Rhys had realized then that he held her in some affection?

Was the Tear’s current radiance a sign of the growth of Rhys’ regard for her? Or did it indicate her own love for him?

Perhaps the stone shone most brightly when a pair loved each other with uncommon vigor, because that love would light their united path ahead.

Madeline had to reach Rhys to know for certain.

Encouraged, she found a grip on the stones overhead and pulled herself onward. Madeline recounted the tale of the man with the fairy harp to herself, though she knew she had forgotten some of it, though she knew that she could never tell it as well as Rhys. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see all that floated around her, and pulled herself onward despite the ache in her arms.

Suddenly, Madeline bumped her head. She bit back a curse, tipped back her head to see the offending stone, then gasped aloud.

The tunnel turned straight up, stretching above her head to a circle of flickering light. That aperture did not appear to be far away, perhaps a distance akin to the height of two men. There were handholds carved in the stone on one side, as if boys might have to climb down the drain to clear it on occasion.

And there was no iron grill across the opening.

* * *

Heart aflame with hope, Madeline pulled herself around the bend in the drain. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to think clearly. There would be a challenge ahead, of that she had no doubt. She took a deep breath, then climbed with newfound purpose.

She reached the top of the drain and peered over the lip.

The drain opened into a stone chamber. The chamber was dark, the only light coming from a lantern upon an unsteady table. Madeline guessed that the room was beneath the earth, or beneath the tower of Caerwyn. The stones in the walls looked large enough to be foundation stones.

Indeed, a wooden ladder ascended to a patch of light at the far end of the chamber. There was a solid wood door to her left, one with such a fearsome lock upon it that she thought she knew what it was.

She could see only one person. A plump bald man sat upon a bench beside the flickering lantern, his mouth open as he snored softly.

Madeline eased silently out of the drain, slops dripping from her sodden chemise. She grasped her knife as soon as she stood free of the drain, her gaze fixed upon the sleeping man. The air was cold here and she shivered, even as she moved closer to the man. A ring of keys were cast upon the table, alongside a sword that Madeline recognized as Rhys’ own.

The man was of considerable size, Madeline saw, and she realized that she would have only one chance against him. If he but raised one of those heavy hands against her, he could fairly kill her.

Surprise, and perhaps her wits, would be her only asset. Madeline took another step closer, her knife shaking in her grip. The water dribbling from her chemise seemed to make a fearful amount of noise as it fell upon the stone floor. A thousand doubts plagued her.

What if Rhys was not locked behind that portal?

What if Rhys was asleep there?

What if Rhys was dead?

What if there was no one to aid her? What would this man do to her once he subdued her? Madeline could guess that she would not enjoy whatever happened after she failed. She took the last step and closed her hand over the keys.

They were heavy, wrought of brass, and there were two of them upon the ring. She had to choose the right one, as well! She pulled the ring off the table and it jingled slightly. Madeline caught her breath and froze in place.

The man frowned, then continued to snore. Madeline exhaled in relief, shivered suddenly in the chill, and sneezed.

The man was awake and on his feet in a heartbeat. He roared and reached for the hilt of his blade. Madeline seized the only chance she had and jabbed her knife into his eye.

He bellowed in rage, then swore. He staggered backward, blood streaming from his face, and Madeline nearly lost her grip upon the keys.

“Who is there?” Rhys shouted from behind the locked portal. “What happens out there?”

Madeline heard him pound upon the portal in frustration. She snatched up Rhys’ sword and threw herself across the chamber. “Which key?” she shouted.

“The longer one,” a woman replied.

The jailor lunged after Madeline, blood streaming down his face. She shoved the key into the lock, turned it hard, and jumped out of the way as Rhys flung the door back on its hinges.

“Anwylaf!” he said in evident amazement, then took one glance across the chamber. He seized his blade from Madeline’s hand, and drove it into the jailor’s chest just as that man leapt toward them.

The jailor’s blade clattered to the floor.

Madeline leaned against the wall in her relief, astonished to find her knees shaking. Rhys grimly ensured that the other man was dead, then turned to face her. A light danced briefly in his gaze, and Madeline stared at him, her heart bursting.

If only he would say something, if only he confessed himself glad to see her, then she would know she had not done this deed in vain.

But Rhys could not make sense of her presence. He even frowned when his gaze danced over her. He pulled his tabard over his head, then cast it in Madeline’s direction, his manner so dismissive that she flinched.

“You had best cover yourself, Madeline, lest all think you offer more than is your intent,” he said, then pivoted to study the chamber anew.

Madeline realized then that her chemise clung to her flesh so wetly that she might as well have stood naked. She sneezed again, then pulled his thick tabard over her head. It hung to her knees and was warm with Rhys’ heat. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, even as she watched Rhys pace the chamber. He stood at the base of the ladder and listened.

“Anwylaf,” a woman mused. Madeline glanced up to find an older woman in the portal to the cell. She looked amused, her one brow arched and her lips curved in an affectionate smile as she surveyed Rhys.

He ignored her.

“You did not say that Madeline was your anwylaf,” the woman teased. The back of Rhys’ neck turned an unmistakably ruddy hue.

“It is scarce of import,” he said gruffly.

“He always calls me as much,” Madeline said. “For I am his wife.”

The woman chuckled and offered her hand with grace. “As I am his mother, Adele. I am delighted to meet you, Madeline.” She drew closer to Madeline. “But you are mistaken, my dear. Anwylaf does not mean ‘wife’. How curious that Rhys did not make the distinction clear.” She laughed lightly then, as if not finding the matter curious at all.

Rhys pointedly ignored this discussion. Indeed, he seemed intent upon listening to some noise from above that Madeline could not discern.

Madeline was confused. “But what does anwylaf mean, then?”

“It means ‘dearest one’.” Adele’s smile broadened. “In my family, we use it only for our beloved. You must understand, my dear, that I am even more happy to meet you, now that I know my son calls you his beloved.”

Madeline could not halt the answering smile that curved her lips. She had desired a sweet confession from Rhys, unaware that he had been making it all along.

* * *

There had to be worse things than having his mother surrender the secrets of his heart to his wife—who was determined to have their marriage annulled—but in this moment Rhys could not think of what those things might be.

He had no time to ponder such whimsy, and truly, there would be no need to ponder it if they three did not survive.

Madeline sneezed, drawing his gaze to her sorry state. She was soaked and she smelled, but there was a stubborn gleam in her eyes that made him proud. She was a rare treasure, this woman with a valor to match his own. They suited each other well, to Rhys’ thinking, and he knew he had perceived as much when first he glimpsed her at Ravensmuir.

She watched him and he dared to hope that she had returned for more than duty. “I pledged to open the gates for the others,” she said.

“How many?”

“Only five. Cradoc ap Gwilym, the sheriff, met Rosamunde on the road and kept her from riding on to Caerwyn. He was trying to warn you, for he feared the intent of Robert Herbert.”

Rhys nodded. “Cradoc is a good man and a fair fighter. Then there is Rosamunde and who else?”

“Alexander, Vivienne and Elizabeth.” Madeline smiled at little at his disappointment. “Unless you count the fairy that only Elizabeth can see, who she calls Darg.”

“It is no small thing to have a fairy on our side,” Adele said with favor. Her tone did not dispel the fact that odds were decidedly against them.

“What of our own men? Were they captured, or killed?” Rhys asked.

“They pledged to serve Robert,” Adele said, “for they declared their loyalty was to Nelwyna.”

“Do you think it true?”

Adele smiled. “No one is truly loyal to Nelwyna, Rhys. They lied, the better that they might be able to aid you. Robert guesses as much, for he has separated them and scattered them amongst the ranks of his own company.”

“But they might take your side, given the chance,” Madeline said, before she sneezed again.

There was nothing for it. They had to leave the chill of the dungeon, and do their best. Rhys pulled Madeline’s blade from the jailor’s eye and wiped it on the man’s tabard. He handed it back to her, then spoke quickly.

“I will lead. Mother, you will follow close behind me. Madeline, you must guard my back. We must endeavor to remain together, for if we are separated, I will not be able to defend you both. We must capture Robert and Nelwyna, and hope that will cool the ardor of the others for battle.”

“They will be in the solar,” Adele said, crossing her arms across her chest. “Nelwyna spoke bluntly of what she offered to Robert, and I have heard the men complaining that he never leaves her bed.”

Rhys nodded. One excellent thing about Caerwyn was the simplicity of its design. There was one staircase which clung to the inside of the tower’s wall. The hall was immediately above the dungeon and filled the ground floor. Above were two chambers, one facing inland, which had been that of Nelwyna and his father, one facing sun and sea which had always been his mother’s. Crowning that, was the solar, Dafydd’s chamber, which filled the uppermost floor of the tower.

There were few places to hide in Caerwyn’s tower, which would make it easy to find Robert and Nelwyna.

It might also work against Rhys, for there would be no refuge once they were spied.

“What about the gate?” Madeline asked.

Rhys shook his head, unable to see how he could achieve this, as well. He did not want to hurt her feelings, but he doubted the others would provide much aid against the dozens of mercenaries. “We shall see what we can do.” He nodded once to the women, then climbed the ladder with no small trepidation.

* * *

Rhys had had no notion of how much time had passed in the dungeon, so he was surprised to find the hall dark. Night had fallen and the smell of meat told him that the men had eaten. They slumbered, stretched out on pallets that nearly covered the hall floor, while half a dozen torches burned fitfully on the wall.

He had time to hear his mother exhale in surprise, then he spied a flicker of movement. Adele strode away from him with purpose, lifting her skirts carefully as she crossed the room. She winked before she opened the portal to the courtyard, and slipped out of view.

Rhys gaped after her. Surely there must be sentries afoot? But there was no sound, no hue and cry, no alarm. He imagined his mother striding across the bailey, lifting the key from the sleeping gatekeeper’s hand and opening the gate.

Madeline seemed to be fighting a smile. Rhys shrugged, then turned for the stairs, thinking this might prove more readily won than he had dared to hope.

After all, no one knew that he had been loosed from the dungeon. Perhaps his fortune changed! He leapt onto the bottom step, reaching back with one hand to ensure that Madeline was close behind him.

They reached the second floor and stood back to back in his mother’s chamber, circling slowly while they both sought signs of life. There appeared to be no one in the chamber, though the light was more dim here than in the hall below. The gem on Madeline’s breast glowed, illuminating a little space around them.

Their gazes met and Rhys saw Madeline’s nose twitch. He snatched at her, covering her mouth with his hand and burying her face in his chest just as she sneezed again.

They froze as one, but there was no movement beyond the racing of their own hearts. Rhys exhaled, caressed Madeline’s cheek, then indicated the door to Nelwyna’s chamber. She lifted her blade grimly and nodded agreement.

The door was unlocked and swung open silently. The chamber beyond was dark, too dark for Rhys’ taste. He thought he could hear breathing, as if someone slept in the shadows beyond. He stepped cautiously into the room, his blade held high, and his mother screamed from far below.

Rhys glanced over his shoulder in fear. In that heartbeat, he felt motion beside him. Madeline lunged forward and stabbed her knife into the assailant who had been lurking in the shadows. That man’s blade was mere inches from Rhys’ throat.

The man was only stunned, but Rhys swung his blade and ensured he would surprise no one again. The man fell. Rhys pivoted to face the chamber again and his heart sank to his toes. The light from Madeline’s gemstone was reflected in the blades of a dozen men who had leapt to their feet. They dove as one toward him.

“Stay fast behind me!” Rhys bellowed, as if he meant to leap into the chamber. Instead, he leapt back and slammed the portal into the chamber. The men fell heavily against it and several swore.

Madeline smiled at him, then she sneezed again. Rhys seized her hand and fled toward the stairs to the third floor. They were not so quiet now, for they had need of speed. They were only halfway up the stairs when the men tore open the door of Nelwyna’s chamber and roared at the sight of Rhys.

A sentry was awakening at the summit of the stairs, but he was not quick enough to evade the bite of Rhys’ blade. Madeline’s gem revealed the man to be a stranger, probably one of Robert’s most trusted men.

Rhys lifted Madeline’s knife from her grip, bent and slit the man’s throat. There was a gurgle, no more, then he was still and silent. Rhys wiped the blade and returned it to her, then kicked open the portal.

Another dozen men roared for blood at leapt at Rhys. They were trapped beneath the two groups. Rhys bellowed and charged into the chamber, Madeline fast behind him. Rhys swung his blade and felled two men so quickly that they seemed astonished, even in death. He bent to finish the deed.

“On your left!” Madeline cried and Rhys straightened with his blade swinging. He heard her grunt as she drove her own blade into some sorry soul, then she pressed the hilt of a knife into his left hand. They fought well together, for though she could not match his strength, the gem ensured that she could see more.

A mercenary leapt at Rhys, swinging his blade with such fury that Rhys had to jump out of its path. Footsteps pounded on the stairs, but he dared not glance that way. He circled the mercenary, Madeline fast behind him, and heard the clash of blades on the other side of the chamber.

With each success, the battle became more complicated. There were many bodies and the light was not good. The floor was slick with blood and Rhys had to use care not to lose his footing. He dispatched the mercenary with a grunt, then realized he had lost something else.

Madeline was no longer at his back.

Rhys spun, seeking her, and found instead the glimmer of light from her gemstone. None other than Robert Herbert was lit by the stone’s glow, the blade of his sword glittering against Madeline’s throat. He wore no more than his chemise, his feet were bare, and he held Madeline by the hair. He stood beside the curtained bed.

Rhys froze. He straightened and spread his hands in surrender, letting his blade dangle from his hand. He did not drop it, though, for he saw Alexander easing ever closer to Robert. It must have been Alexander’s arrival he had heard earlier, and the younger man who was responsible for killing some of their foes.

“You can have Caerwyn,” Rhys said. “I know that is your desire. I ask only that you release the lady.”

Robert sneered. “You have nothing with which to bargain.”

“I bargain with my life. Kill me instead of her.” Rhys put the tip of his blade against the floor and leaned both hands on the pommel. “Unless you are the kind of man who is only confident in the killing of women?”

“I have not lived so long because I am fool enough to rise to such bait,” Robert said smoothly. He let the tip of his blade slide down Madeline’s throat. “Perhaps I have another scheme for the lady, one that does not require her demise.”

“You would not!” Nelwyna shouted from the bed. “You made a pledge to me, you wretch!”

She leapt from the bed in naked fury. Robert turned, and Rhys knew he would have to see Alexander. Indeed, Robert shouted then swung his sword at Madeline’s brother. Rhys leapt across the chamber, fearing he would be too late to save the younger man. Alexander raced toward Nelwyna, perhaps hoping to use her as a shield.

Madeline guessed Rhys’ plight. She jumped upon Robert from behind, and wrapped her arms tightly around his face.

He cried out in dismay and stumbled. “The stench! I cannot breathe! Get off me, woman!” Only then did Rhys recall that Madeline’s chemise was soaked with sewage.

Her diversion granted Rhys the time he needed.

Rhys flung Madeline behind him and struck Robert across the face with his fist. That man staggered, then swung his blade at Rhys’ groin. Rhys danced out of its path.

The battle erupted on all sides again, and Rhys realized that all of the others were here to aid him. On the far side of the chamber, a fallen mercenary lifted his head and surreptitiously reached for his blade.

Vivienne cried out a warning then struck that man in the head with a poker. Elizabeth swung a pair of flaming torches, setting fire to the garb of any man fool enough to come close to her. Rhys watched as she drove one torch into a man’s face despite that man’s screams.

“These Lammergeier women are wrought of stern stuff,” Rhys muttered, even as he backed Madeline into a corner. She chuckled, then sneezed, so he knew where she was without risking a glance her way. She must be growing tired, after her ordeal of this day, and he was determined to ensure that she had no more need to fight.

Robert fought like a man half his age, and Rhys was glad of Elizabeth’s torches. The pair dodged and feinted, nicking each other with cursed frequency. There was blood on Rhys’ hands and a cut on his brow that was determined to bleed into his eye. Their blades clashed again and again and again, neither willing to cede, each as well matched as the other.

Alexander and Nelwyna struggled on the far side of the chamber. Nelwyna’s generous size and her anger made their battle a more even match than it might otherwise have been.

“Men!” Nelwyna cried. She looked as if she intended to wrest Alexander’s head from his shoulders. “You are all liars and scoundrels, louts one and all. You think of nothing beyond your pricks and your ambitions and your ale!”

“Ow!” Alexander shouted, and kicked her in the knee.

“Ow!” Nelwyna cried, and kicked him back. Alexander darted backward and lifted his blade against her.

“You will not kill a woman old enough to be your grandmother, will you?” Nelwyna crooned. She stooped so that she looked older and more feeble than she was. Alexander’s blade wavered. “I am old and wrinkled and you are too honorable a knight to kill an old woman devoid of defenses.”

“So long as you have your tongue in your head, you are scarce defenseless,” Robert muttered.

Nelwyna turned, hatred in her gaze. “You cursed vermin! I offered you my all...”

“And it was precious little, for it had been well savored afore.”

“Oh!” Nelwyna gasped in outrage. She dove toward Robert and Rhys saw his moment. He jabbed his blade into Robert’s gut with such force that the tip of the blade might have erupted from Robert’s back. Rhys pulled out his blade and Robert staggered, though he did not fall.

He turned and gave Nelwyna a savage blow across the face. “I should never have heeded your lies,” he spat as she lost her footing. “I should have guessed that Caerwyn could not become my own that easily.” Then he fell to his knees and Rhys struck him again. Robert landed facedown amidst his fallen mercenaries, though Rhys kept his blade pointed at him.

Nelwyna stumbled from the impact of Robert’s blow, her hand raised to her face. Alexander straightened behind her and lifted his sword. He swung the blade so forcefully that his blow should have been fatal.

Or it would have been, had it struck the older woman.

Nelwyna clearly tripped. They all saw her trip, although none of them ever agreed later as to what could have tripped her. The floor was barren there, but she tripped all the same.

Alexander’s blade whistled past her and the weight of the blow buried it in the wooden floor. Rhys heard a strange gleeful cackle, and saw Nelwyna’s expression of horror as she tumbled over the sill of the window and disappeared from sight.

Nelwyna screamed as she fell to Caerwyn’s bailey, and then she screamed no more.

“Ha!” Rhys smiled at the sound of his mother’s triumphant cry in the bailey. “Now, there is a deed well done!”

Rosamunde could be heard to laugh along with Adele, those two women obviously hale enough.

* * *

Rhys backed Madeline further into his corner, staring all the while at his fallen foe. He dared not lower his blade or avert his gaze, not until he knew for certain that his avaricious neighbor lived no more.

He did not trust Robert, and half-expected that the man only feigned death. Rhys dared not expose Madeline to another threat, not until he could be fully certain that she was safe.

But the lady leaned against him, her chest against his back. He felt the wet of her chemise soak his own garb, felt her curves against him. He felt her sigh of relief, he felt the trembling that still claimed her. Her hands slipped around his waist, as if he alone kept her upright, and she held fast to him.

Rhys hoped she wanted more from him than warmth. Some tension eased out of Rhys when Alexander confirmed that Robert was truly dead. Madeline whispered Rhys’ name and the exhaustion in her voice tore at his heart.

Rhys claimed Madeline’s left hand with his own, and interlaced their fingers. His ring still graced the middle finger of her hand, the silver ring he had taken from his own smallest finger all those days ago at Miriam’s abbey. The sight of it, the fact that she had not removed it and cast it aside, granted him hope.

After all, she was here.

Rhys held Madeline’s cold hand captive against the pounding of his heart, flattening it beneath the heat of his own palm. Perhaps she truly would remain by his side.

She sneezed, then leaned her cheek against his back with a sigh. The fingers of her other hand knotted into his own chemise, as if she would hold him fast.

“Anwylaf,” she whispered and a lump rose in Rhys’ throat.

With that one word, Madeline told him all he had need of knowing. Rhys understood not only that she would stay at Caerwyn, but why.

He lifted her hand to his lips, intending to kiss her palm, then recoiled at the smell. “Anwylaf, you have need of a bath,” he said sternly. Madeline laughed, then sneezed three times in rapid succession. Rhys caught her up in his arms and bellowed for hot water. He would not lose her through illness now!

“I have no maid,” Madeline said, her eyes dancing with mischief.

“I shall see you well served,” Rhys retorted, then grinned down at her. “You need have no fear otherwise.”

The lady laughed and curled against his chest. “I love you, Rhys FitzHenry,” she said, her eyes shining.

“And I love you, my Madeline.” Rhys tightened his hold upon her, more relieved than he could declare in words. “It seems that we have much to celebrate this night.”

“Sons,” Madeline said with resolve. “We have sons to conceive this night.”

And Rhys FitzHenry laughed aloud, for the first time in years, much to the evident delight of his wife.

Epilogue

Rhys had called for a feast, for all those abiding at Caerwyn and his neighbors besides to meet his new wife, but it took a fortnight for the feast to be arranged. Of course, there were tales to be shared, for Rhys had not known about Ellyn and everyone had to share the tale of their adventures on the journey from Kinfairlie, as well as of their role in the recapture of Caerwyn.

There were funerals to be planned, for Robert Herbert and Nelwyna. The mercenaries also had be to be buried and there was some consultation between the priests of Caerwyn and Harlech as to the spiritual status of those fighting men. Few in the end were buried in Caerwyn’s consecrated ground.

The neighboring lords had to be invited to the festivities and arrangements had to be made for the feast itself. There were friendships to be made and Caerwyn itself to be explored. Alexander and Vivienne and Elizabeth went hawking and hunting with Rosamunde and Adele, accompanied by an extensive party of Caerwyn’s men. The feast was the excuse for their hunt, for the kitchens had need of meat, but they had a merry time. Alexander resolved to tell his uncle, the Hawk of Inverfyre, that falcons would be a fitting gift for the newly wed couple.

Madeline had continued to sneeze throughout that night, for she had been chilled to her very marrow. Rhys had undertaken her care himself, and they had remained locked in the solar for six days and nights. Rhys had opened the portal only to receive food and had made an enigmatic comment about sons.

The others oft heard him singing or the pair laughing. Adele had reported that both of the solar’s occupants looked hale enough when she took them a meal, but no one was inclined to oust them from the solar.

There was a further delay when they finally rejoined the company, as Adele insisted upon fussing over Madeline’s garb for the feast.

To the great relief of all, an old missive was found within a trunk of Nelwyna’s. This missive had been dispatched by King Henry V in 1416—it declared that Rhys had been pardoned, along with his fellows, on the condition of future loyalty to the crown. Only Nelwyna had ever laid eyes upon the missive, for she had hidden it away, though all of Caerwyn rejoiced to know Rhys to be safe from the king’s wrath, after all.

Rhys himself dispatched a missive to the crown regarding the suzerainty of Caerwyn, and the response came with astonishing haste. The king, it seemed, had heard tell of Rhys’ competent stewardship of Caerwyn beneath his uncle’s direction. The king considered Rhys to be reformed and laudable, and well deserving of Caerwyn’s seal.

Madeline suggested that the king was busy with other matters and that Dafydd had spoken aright. Prompt payment of tithes and a lack of rebellion had indeed turned the king’s eye to other concerns.

In commemoration of Rhys’ title, Madeline and her sisters insisted then upon modifying his insignia. He had worn only the mark of his homeland for years. It was time, Madeline insisted, that Rhys have colors to call his own.

He did not protest overmuch.

* * *

And so it was that the moon was waning on the night that all gathered at Caerwyn. They came to celebrate Caerwyn’s new lord, who was familiar to them, and to meet Caerwyn’s new lady, who as yet was not.

A new banner hung over Caerwyn’s high tower and the same insignia graced the dark tabard of Caerwyn’s new lord. The red dragon of Wales now emanated golden rays on both tabard and insignia, not unlike the rays that surrounded Madeline’s precious Tear of the Virgin. The rays were similar, as well, to the glowing orb of Kinfairlie’s insignia. The sisters’ clever needles made it look as if Kinfairlie’s orb had slipped behind Wales’ red dragon, much as the setting sun will slide behind a ship upon the seas.

“Mingled insignia for mingled blood,” Madeline had said with a smile, her hand sliding over her flat belly. Her sisters had not known whether she but hope for a child, or whether she knew already that she carried one. Vivienne and Elizabeth agreed, however, that Rhys would make a fine father.

Rhys stood at the foot of the stairs on this night of nights, all in black save for the brilliant insignia upon his tabard. Alexander stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, the colors of Kinfairlie upon his tabard. Rosamunde stood alongside, resplendent in her own uncommon garb. They waited for the other women to descend. The entire company was on their feet and wearing their best garb. The musicians played a winsome tune, though James had returned to his father’s home.

Alexander thought that the preferable arrangement, and it had been he who had encouraged James to leave.

Now, Alexander cleared his throat and spoke softly. “I would have a matter resolved between us, Rhys.”

Rhys granted the younger man only the barest glance of acknowledgement. “Indeed?”

“I brought your coin with me on this journey, for I thought to repay you the auction price if Madeline wished to wed James,” Alexander said with haste. “I thought it would be unfitting for you to have paid for a bride who abandoned you.”

Rhys shrugged. “How fortunate for both of us that Madeline did no such thing. You have a fat purse to keep, as was initially your hope, and I have the bride who was my initial hope.” He turned back to watch the stairs.

“But I have changed my thinking.”

Rhys did not apparently hear this comment.

Alexander seized his host’s sleeve. “Rhys, I know that I erred. I know that I should not have auctioned Madeline’s hand.”

“Matters ended well enough,” Rosamunde interjected.

“If you mean to apologize, I would suggest you apologize to Madeline,” Rhys said, with that same infuriating calm. “She is the one who was done a disservice.”

“I mean to return your coin!” Alexander said in frustration, and was rewarded by Rhys’ look of surprise. He took his host’s hand and placed the sack of coin heavily within it. “Here! I will not have mere coin between us. Let us be friends and allies, let us be brothers.”

Rhys considered the sack of coin, apparently astonished. “Are you certain of this course?”

“I can do nothing else to remove the stain I put upon our family’s name.”

“I thought you had need of the coin.”

“No one can need coin so much as to put a barrier between himself and new kin.” Alexander did not know what he would do about the crop that would surely fail, but there had to be another solution than this one. In truth, he was glad to be rid of the weight of the coin.

Rhys smiled slowly and put his hand upon Alexander’s shoulder. “You become a man before me.” His gaze was steady and Alexander was relieved to see no censure in those dark eyes any longer. “If ever you have need of a loan, Alexander, come to me. You will find my terms more readily met than those of a moneylender.”

Sadly, Alexander did not feel it appropriate to beg such a loan immediately. He nodded and inclined his head. “I thank you, Rhys.” Then he pointed to the summit of the stairs. “Look! The women finally join us!”

Every eye turned to watch the ladies arrive. Elizabeth descended first, her face more red than ever Alexander had seen it. She tripped on her skirts on the bottom step and Rhys caught her elbow with ease. She thanked him and her blush deepened even more as she scurried to Alexander’s side. “How hideous,” she whispered. “Why could I not simply wait here with you?”

“Because you are the sister of Caerwyn’s lady,” Alexander reminded her.

“Rosamunde is her aunt,” Elizabeth retorted.

That woman smiled. “I have made my own rules for so long that I forget there are others. Do not be so quick to step away from the expectations of others, Elizabeth. I would not change my choices, but you might if you made the same ones.”

Alexander could think of little he might say to add to that. He looked back to the stairs.

Vivienne, in marked contrast to Elizabeth, clearly savored the attention of the company. She smiled, and her hips swung as she descended the stairs with grace.

Vivienne was followed by Rhys’ mother, Adele, who positively beamed in her delight. Adele kissed Rhys and pinched his cheek when she paused beside him, a familiarity that Alexander would have found unthinkable.

Yet more incredibly, Rhys not only endured it, but smiled.

“Grandchildren,” Adele said with mock solemnity, patting Rhys’ cheek as if he were a small boy. “I desire many grandchildren and I desire them soon.”

“I shall see what can be done, Mother,” Rhys said, then winked at Alexander. Alexander was shocked. His response must have been clear, for Rhys chuckled.

Then Madeline halted at the summit of the stairs. Her hair was covered by a veil, her face framed in silk. Her beauty, though, was more astonishing than ever, for she glowed with a new happiness. She wore a kirtle of a rich red hue, the same hue as the dragon in Rhys’ insignia, and it was thickly embroidered with gold at the cuffs and the hems. The Tear of the Virgin hung at her throat, shining with unrivalled brilliance.

“That gem is astonishing,” Alexander murmured.

Rhys grinned. “Aye, there is no treasure so fine as the Jewel of Kinfairlie.” He moved to the foot of the stairs, offering his hand to his lady wife. He kissed Madeline’s hand when she met him there and the pair seemed oblivious to all others in the hall.

“But there is no Jewel of Kinfairlie,” Alexander said.

Rosamunde laughed beside him. “Is there not, Alexander? Show me a more radiant gem than your sister.”

In that moment, Rhys and Madeline turned, the Lord of Caerwyn holding his wife’s hand high. “I bid you all welcome my lady wife...”

“Your anwylaf,” Adele interrupted with satisfaction.

The couple laughed and Madeline flushed. “My anwylaf,” Rhys agreed easily, and the crowd chuckled in their turn. “Lady Madeline of Caerwyn!”

“He will kiss her, of that you can be certain,” Vivienne said with delight. “It is simply too perfect of an ending to their tale.”

“It is only a beginning,” Elizabeth said, which made both sisters smile.

The happily wed pair exchanged a smile, oblivious as they were to all other than each other, then Madeline cupped Rhys’ jaw and kissed him with vigor before all the men and women of Caerwyn. The assembly applauded, then began to stamp their feet. Alexander found himself hooting with all the others, so well pleased was he that Madeline had found the happiness she deserved.

“Woho!” roared some merry soul and every person in the hall turned to look.

A portly man, who looked to be a monk by his garb, grinned at the assembly with pleasure. He led a horse by its bridle, that beast swishing its tail as its ears flicked.

“We look to have timed our arrival well,” he said to the horse. The beast nuzzled him and nibbled at what remained of the monk’s hair, as if in agreement. “A feast is no small welcome, especially for such humble travelers as ourselves.”

“Thomas!” Rhys shouted with obvious delight, and much of the company echoed his greeting.

“Tarascon!” Madeline cried, then picked up her skirts to hasten across the hall. Alexander realized belatedly that it was indeed his sister’s palfrey that followed the monk into the very hall.

The lord and lady greeted the new arrivals with much merriment, and the assembly closed around them, clamoring for the tale. Alexander smiled as the monk exchanged hearty greetings with many in the company: this Thomas was clearly well known here and held in great affection.

Alexander’s smile broadened as he watched his sister Madeline, her features alight. Rosamunde had spoken rightly. However poorly this marriage had begun, it could not have ended better. He need not fear for Madeline’s future, not with Rhys by her side.

He could not have asked the Fates for more.

Well, perhaps he could have asked for a measure more coin in Kinfairlie’s treasury, but he would find a solution to his woes somehow.

* * *

Only Elizabeth saw the spriggan skip over the heads of all gathered there that day. Only Elizabeth saw Darg seize the blue ribbon that seemed to flow suddenly from Madeline. Only Elizabeth saw Darg braid that ribbon with the gold and silver ones already twined together behind Madeline and Rhys. They were long ribbons, every one of them, and Elizabeth was glad to know that this Madeline would have many more years with her true love than Madeline Arundel had savored.

But Elizabeth hugged the secret to herself. Let all the family wait nine months to know the truth of what—or who—Madeline and Rhys had wrought. Darg winked at her from across the hall, and Elizabeth winked back, content to keep the fairy’s confidence.

For now.

The Rose Red Bride

More cherished than gold are the Jewels of Kinfairlie, and only the worthiest may fight for their love... The Laird of Kinfairlie has unmarried sisters, each a gem in her own right. And he has no choice but to see them all wed in haste.

Like a heroine in an ancient tale, Vivienne waited in the highest chamber of Kinfairlie’s tower for her fated lover. In the darkness he came for her, cloaked and hooded so that she would not see his face. He loved her sweetly, thoroughly...and Vivienne knew she had met her destiny.

But in the morning light, her dream is shattered. Erik Sinclair of Blackleith is no romantic hero but a disinherited warrior who arranged her abduction to regain his own legacy. Outraged by Erik’s insistence that he needs her solely to beget a son, yet ensnared by the passion he awakens, Vivienne realizes that there is more merit in her taciturn spouse than he would admit. Erik is skeptical of her growing faith in his honor and her desire to recapture his stolen birthright...

Little does he suspect that his rare gem of a bride intends to capture his barricaded heart as well.

Chapter One

Kinfairlie, on the east coast of Scotland

August 1421

Alexander congratulated himself upon a matter well concluded. Although the marriage of his eldest sister Madeline had not begun auspiciously, his solution had ultimately proven to be a good one. Just as he had predicted, Madeline was wedded and happily so, all the more content for the babe already rounding her belly. Though Alexander had not located Rhys FitzHenry by any conventional means of matchmaking, the man who had bought Madeline’s hand at auction had proven to be an excellent spouse.

All had ended well, and Alexander was inclined to grant himself credit for that happy fact. A man had to find encouragement where he could. There was little else that stood to Alexander’s credit at Kinfairlie and he often felt overwhelmed by the burden of his hereditary holding.

Alexander stared out the window at Kinfairlie’s fields, frowning that they were not more lushly green. The crop was slightly better than his castellan had predicted, but not sufficiently good enough. Though his sister Madeline was wedded, his brother Malcolm was training at Ravensmuir and his other brother Ross was training at Inverfyre, there remained four unwed sisters for whom Alexander was responsible. The castellan had been firm in his counsel that there must be fewer mouths at the board for the winter.

The fields offered a telling reminder. Alexander would still have to see his sister Vivienne, the next eldest after Madeline, married before the snow flew.

Sadly, Vivienne was not proving to be any easier to wed than her elder sister Madeline had been. Vivienne was willing to wed, but she wished to feel affection for her spouse before her nuptials were celebrated. Indeed, she wished to be in love. Alexander was certain they had visited every man in Christendom to no avail. He might well roar if Vivienne met his gaze and gave that minute shake of her head one more time.

Though Alexander would prefer for Vivienne to be happy, August was already upon them. Soon he would be compelled to take matters into his own hands.

Alexander sighed and buried himself in the accounts of the estate, hoping to discover that matters were slightly better than he knew them to be. He did not have sufficient time to become bored with the tedium of checking tallies before a rap sounded upon the wooden portal.

Anthony, Kinfairlie’s elderly castellan, cleared his throat when Alexander did not immediately respond. “A gentleman to see you, my lord. He begs an audience in privacy at your earliest convenience.”

Alexander was intrigued, for guests seldom arrived unbidden at Kinfairlie and even less frequently insisted upon privacy. “Has he a name?”

“Nicholas Sinclair, my lord.” Anthony sniffed as Alexander started in surprise at the familiar name. “I am dubious of his character, my lord. No man of merit whispers his name and hides his face within the shadows of his hood.”

Alexander sat back in astonishment. “But Nicholas Sinclair was the very man who courted Vivienne some years ago!”

Anthony straightened in disapproval. “I believe as much, sir, though the Sinclair men are rogues indistinguishable each from the other. They are said to be of Viking lineage, my lord, which gives them little credit.” He apparently noted Alexander’s interest in this new arrival and cleared his throat again. “Although I admit that is solely my own opinion, sir. There are those, often women, I have heard, who find a certain allure in Sinclair men.”

What had gone awry between Nicholas and Vivienne? Alexander could not recall. Indeed, he might never have known. He had not paid much attention to Vivienne’s loss of a suitor, for in those days, such matters had not been his concern.

“I should be delighted to see Nicholas Sinclair,” he said, noting that Anthony was taken aback by his vigor. Alexander smiled, for he had come to enjoy surprising his very proper castellan. “Bring him to me with all haste, if you please, and some ale as well.”

“Ale, sir?” Anthony’s silver brows rose high. “Are you certain it is wise to make a Sinclair so welcome?”

“Ale, Anthony, to be sure.” Alexander spoke with the firmness he had learned to use with his opinionated castellan. “A guest is a guest, no matter his name.”

Anthony cast a glance over the accounts, spread over the table before his liege lord, and his lips pinched yet more tightly. “I would suggest that your affairs not be so displayed, my lord. The Sinclairs have a reputation for coveting what is not their own.”

“I have had my fill of the accounts at any rate,” Alexander said, then began to put the books away as the castellan left. He rolled scrolls tightly and refastened their ribbons, storing all carefully in a trunk.

The table before him was bare when a tall, cloaked man entered the chamber. The man limped, favoring his left leg, but strode with vigor all the same. As Anthony had noted, the man kept his hood raised, and his face was in shadow.

Alexander turned, his curiosity keen. “Nicholas Sinclair?”

The man nodded curtly. “Good day to you. I thank you for this courtesy.” Nicholas offered his hand and Alexander shook it. It was a large hand, tanned and roughened, the hand of man well familiar with the weight of a blade. Nicholas’ grip was no less sure than Alexander might have expected. His manner was purposeful and confident, and Alexander could not help but think that a man resolutely of this world might be a good partner for his sister who loved whimsical tales.

Alexander made to take his seat once more and gestured to the bench opposite. “I confess to a certain curiosity about your arrival here.”

The other man pushed back his hood, then sat upon the bench. Alexander struggled to hide his shock. He blinked, he glanced down at his own hands to school his expression, then he looked his guest squarely in the eyes again.

Nicholas Sinclair watched him shrewdly and Alexander knew that his discomfiture had been noticed. “It was not my intent to startle you,” he said, though Alexander suspected this was not perfectly true.

No man could fail to be startled by the scar that ran from temple to chin on the left side of Nicholas’ face. It was a puckered angry scar, one so vehement that Alexander was certain he would have remembered if it had been there before, one so angry a red that he suspected it was newly won.

Truth be told, Alexander could not recall Nicholas over well, though the man looked vaguely familiar beyond the scar. Nicholas was tall enough to tower over Alexander, and was more broad of shoulder. His coloring did hint at some Viking blood in his veins, for his hair was fair and would have fall straight his shoulders, had it not been tied back with a leather lace. His eyes were a striking clear blue. He was tanned and muscled, and would have been sufficiently handsome to snare the eye of any maiden, at least before he had gained that scar.

“I apologize, for I am a man of blunt speech,” Nicholas said. “I come to make my suit for Vivienne’s hand.”

Alexander found this man’s arrival too convenient to be readily believed. He had learned some caution in arranging the match of Madeline and the hard edge in Nicholas’ tone would give any man pause. “I had understood that you and Vivienne had ceased your courtship some years ago.”

Nicholas averted his gaze. “Due to my folly alone.”

“If you believed as much, then why did you not return sooner?”

“I had no home to offer a bride.” If anything, Nicholas looked more grim at this detail.

“I remember this matter now,” Alexander said, shaking a finger at his guest as his recollection returned. His father and Vivienne had argued heatedly about the folly of wedding a man who was unlikely to inherit property. Though Nicholas’ name had not been mentioned, Vivienne had defied her father with such spirit that all had known the question to be of import to her.

And if memory served Alexander well, the ardent Nicholas had disappeared from Kinfairlie shortly thereafter. He nodded at his guest. “You had an older brother who would inherit afore you, did you not? Erik was his name.”

A shadow touched the other man’s features. “Erik Sinclair was disavowed. Nicholas stands laird of the Sinclair lands at Blackleith now.”

There was no shortage of bitterness in the guest’s tone, and though Alexander thought his reference to himself was oddly stated, there was no denying the lilt of the Highlands in his guest’s voice. Perhaps the man was less accustomed to speaking English than Gaelic, and in Gaelic, the statement would have passed unnoticed.

Alexander’s gaze strayed unwillingly to the other man’s scar and he wondered what had passed between the brothers to cause such a disavowal and such bitterness. There was no good way to inquire after such a delicate matter, and what difference truly, if Alexander could ensure that Vivienne wed the man she desired and lived comfortably as well?

If the courtship had ended because of Nicholas’ lack of an inheritance, she would certainly be delighted to wed him now that he possessed one.

In fact, a lingering affection for this very man might be the reason that she found no other suitor appealing. Madeline had certainly had a similar reason for finding all suitors lacking, and Alexander was striving to learn as much as he could with regards to understanding and pleasing his sisters.

He had three more to see wed after Vivienne, after all.

Nicholas continued with determination. “It is time I claim a bride and my choice is Vivienne.”

Alexander found his reservations melting. This man had faced formidable obstacles, it was clear, and still he was wounded by whatever had riven his family. He could well imagine that Nicholas had never forgotten Vivienne, for though she was his own sister, he was well aware of her abundant charm. Her merry manner and optimism might be just the balm this man needed.

Perhaps his affection for Vivienne had been the one hope that had sustained him in the face of such trials.

The more Alexander considered the match, the more he liked its prospect. He asked after the revenue of Blackleith and its location, as a matter of responsibility, though such details were of less importance than his sister’s happiness. He was reassured that Nicholas seemed to know fully the details of his holding, the number of tenants and amount of land, the annual tithes and what was yet to be done. Here was a responsible baron, to be sure.

“You need not doubt the weight of my purse,” Nicholas said in conclusion. He removed a sack that jingled as he set it upon the table. He shoved it across the expanse of wood toward Alexander. “And I am prepared to show compense to you for seeing my suit successful in short order.”

Alexander stared at the sack of coins, guessing that Kinfairlie’s salvation was within it. He lifted the sack, as if less concerned with its contents than he was, and peered inside. His heart leapt at the quantity of silver coin, though he kept his features impassive. This would see them all through the winter, and let him take his leisure in wedding his three younger sisters.

“You seem anxious for haste,” he said, noting the sole detail that troubled him. An honest man has no need to rush, Alexander’s father had often said, and Nicholas’ urgency made him suspicious.

“What man would not desire speed when the yearning of his heart is clear?” Nicholas smiled, though his lips seemed so unfamiliar with forming that curve that it looked more like a grimace. “I grow no younger. I have dallied overlong over this matter and would see it resolved. A man must seize the moment when the Fates favor his course.”

“You have a scheme.” Alexander did not let his hand close over the coin, not yet.

“I would not linger over banns and betrothals.”

“What then?”

Nicholas frowned, then leaned forward, bracing his elbows upon the table. His eyes shone a vehement blue, which told Alexander the vigor of his intent. “I would capture my intended in the night, consummate our match, then be wed in the morning.”

Alexander put the coin down on the board with force and pushed it back toward the other man. It slid across the polished wood until Nicholas caught it. “It is vulgar to steal a bride! Though others condone kidnapping and rape as expedient, it will not be done at Kinfairlie!”

“This course is a necessary one.”

“No man of honor refuses to court his bride.”

Nicholas leaned back, touched the wound upon his own face with a fingertip, and said no more.

“The Lammergeier wed,” Alexander insisted, fearing that Nicholas offered some pagan convention instead of marriage. “We exchange our vows honorably and before witnesses.”

“I fully intend to wed Vivienne as you suggest. I would merely celebrate the nuptial night before making those vows.”

Alexander understood that the other man feared that his injury would repel his intended, but still he was troubled. One heard of such arrangements, though usually the maiden was seduced because her father protested the match. “Why such need for haste?”

Nicholas’ lips tightened to a harsh line. “My cousin means to contest my suzerainty of Blackleith on the basis that I have no bride. I have need of a wife and a son, I have need of both soon, and I choose Vivienne.” He looked Alexander in the eye. “There is no time to delay, for a babe is not brought to light in a night and a day. I desire to wed Vivienne, and I desire to ensure that she cannot deny my suit because of my wound.” He cast the sack of coin back across the table and Alexander caught it.

This time, Alexander let his fingers close over the hard coins. Though he did not like the means, he could not find no fault with the end result. And he guessed that if he declined Nicholas’ plan, the man would leave Kinfairlie and find another bride.

Alexander could not so disappoint Vivienne. He knew that if ever there was a woman who could look beyond a man’s face to his heart, it was his sister Vivienne. And he guessed that the reason she found favor with no other suitor was that this was the man she wished to wed.

“It is Thursday,” Alexander said thoughtfully. “And it would be inappropriate for a wedding to be celebrated on a Friday, despite your desire for haste, for that day is meant for penance. Let your meeting with Vivienne be tomorrow night, then, and your nuptial vows be exchanged immediately afterward on Saturday morning. Saturday nuptials are a good omen for future happiness, after all. I will ensure that Vivienne sleeps alone in the highest chamber of the tower.”

“How?”

Alexander smiled, knowing precisely the tale he would tell to encourage his sister to do his will of her own volition. “Leave the matter to me. She will be there. I insist only that you grant her every courtesy due to a lady.”

His guest inclined his head in agreement. “The wall of your tower faces the sea, and there are windows at the summit.”

“Three large windows are there, and they all lead to that chamber. You will have to scale the wall, to be sure, and it was wrought smooth purposely to challenge such a feat,” Alexander said. “Surely your desire is sufficient for you to succeed at such a test of valor?”

Nicholas’ eyes narrowed as he considered this scheme. He looked suddenly dangerous and disreputable, a man untroubled by the prospect of scaling a wall to seduce his bride.

But then, Vivienne adored old tales. If her true love made such an effort to win her hand, doubtless she would be charmed. Alexander was reassured that Nicholas understood Vivienne so well.

“And the sentries?” Nicholas asked, resolute as he began to rise to his feet.

Alexander mused for a moment, then knew what he would do. “I can ensure that they look away, though their inattention will not last long. Move with haste when the bell on the village church tolls at midnight.”

Nicholas nodded and drew his hood over his head once more. He shook Alexander’s hand with vigor. “I thank you for your aid in this. You cannot guess its import to me.”

“Be warned that I will have your hide if you fail to treat my sister with honor.”

The men exchanged a steely glance, then Nicholas turned away, his cloak flaring behind him. By the time Anthony returned with two mugs of ale, Alexander’s guest was gone.

* * *

Vivienne was possessed of a new restlessness since her return from Madeline’s new abode at Caerwyn. It was more than the rigor of routine after the adventure of pursuing Madeline and Rhys clear across England with several of her siblings. It was more than missing Madeline, though they two had shared more secrets with each other than with their other sisters.

It was the smile that Madeline had gained upon her journey that was at root of Vivienne’s dissatisfaction. It was a curious smile, both content and teasing, a smile that Madeline bestowed upon her husband in the most unexpected moments, a smile that claimed Madeline’s lips when her hand stole over the curve of her belly, a smile that turned mysterious when Vivienne asked about matters abed.

It was a smile that haunted Vivienne, even after she was no longer in her sister’s presence. Madeline knew something—and Vivienne had a fair guess what that something involved—that Vivienne did not. That created a new gulf between the sisters, and one wider than the distance that separated them.

Vivienne had never been one to take well to mysteries or matters left undiscussed. She had never been able to keep a secret and usually failed to surprise her siblings, for she could not keep from sharing the details of any scheme or gift in advance. And she had never had any capacity for patience.

She wanted to know what Madeline knew and she wanted to know immediately, if not sooner.

Vivienne knew that Alexander wished to see her wed, as well, and she was willing to make vows before the altar. She wanted, however, to pledge herself to a man she loved, as maidens and knights loved in her favored tales.

There were not so many women who smiled as Madeline did. Vivienne aimed to be one of them. She had attended every social event of which she heard tell, she had begged Alexander to accompany her to York and to Edinburgh and to Newcastle, she had met every eligible man with optimism.

To no avail. Not a one of them had made her yearn to know more about him. Indeed, Vivienne felt little but desperation. She knew that Alexander would not be patient forever—after all, she had already seen twenty-one summers. Time and the right to choose were slipping away from her, like sand flowing through a glass.

Vivienne had a certainty that there were critical moments of choice in each person’s life, moments which led irrevocably from the most minute decision to events of great import. The moment her parents had chosen to buy passage upon a specific ship had been a decision of enormous consequence. Once they had boarded the ship and set sail, there had been little or nothing they could have done to avoid the sinking of that ship and the loss of their lives.

The moment in which Madeline had chosen to flee her betrothed, Rhys, had been another of those choices, albeit one which had set a happier sequence of events in motion. Vivienne knew that there must be one such moment in her own life, but as the days passed and no man caught her eye, she began to fear that she missed her chance.

What if marital happiness could only be found by women like Madeline? As her elder sister, Madeline had always marked an impossible standard for Vivienne to meet. Not only did Madeline do every deed first, but her nature had always been more calm than Vivienne’s own. Madeline was less inclined to make impulsive choices than Vivienne, and seldom had any reason to apologize to another member of the family.

And worse, Madeline had always been impeccably groomed. Her hair remained in its braid, her veil never slipped, her hem never tore. Vivienne was plagued by all three flaws, her unruly hair alone prompting sighs from every maid who had ever been compelled to serve her. Madeline had never lost a glove or a shoe or a stocking, while Vivienne had lost so many that the odds often made new pairs. Madeline had been the echo of their mother, composed even as a child, while Vivienne looked unkempt no matter how hard she tried.

Could it be that love was only for those women as composed as Madeline and their mother, Catherine? What if men only found tidy women alluring? The prospect was terrifying to Vivienne.

Hope is a potent elixir, especially for those such as Vivienne who have drunk heartily from its cup, but even Vivienne’s hope began to waver as August evenings took winter’s chill.

If only she still had the chance to make her choice!

* * *

As a result of this fretting, Vivienne had so little appetite at the board on Friday night that her mood did not escape notice. Even the absence of Ross and Malcolm had not diminished the teasing between the siblings who remained at Kinfairlie, and Vivienne was convinced that her three younger sisters had vision like hawks.

“Do you not want your fish?” Isabella demanded. Already as tall as Vivienne, Isabella had recently begun to grow with vigor, and her appetite showed similar might. “The sauce is quite delicious. I could eat another piece, if you intend to waste it.”

Vivienne pushed her trencher toward her sister. “Consider it your own.” Isabella attacked the fish with such enthusiasm that she might not have eaten for a week.

“Did you not like it?” quiet Annelise asked, her concern evident. Annelise was the next youngest sister after Vivienne, the two absent brothers between them in age. “I suggested to the cook that she use dill in the sauce, as it would be a change. It was not my intent to displease you.”

“The sauce is delicious, as Isabella said,” Vivienne said with a smile. “I am not hungry this evening, that is all.”

“Are you ill?” Elizabeth, the youngest of them all, asked.

Vivienne fought her frustration as every soul in the hall turned a compassionate gaze upon her. Nothing escaped comment in this household! “I am well enough.” She shrugged, knowing they would not look away until she granted a reason for her mood. “I simply miss Madeline.”

The sisters sighed as one and stared down at their trenchers. Even Isabella ceased to eat for a moment.

“Perhaps you have need of a tale,” Alexander said with such heartiness that Vivienne was immediately suspicious. Their eldest brother, now Laird of Kinfairlie, had played so many pranks upon his sisters over the years that any gesture of goodwill from him prompted wariness.

“He will tell you of the sad fate of a maiden who refused to wed at her brother’s dictate,” Elizabeth said darkly.

“At least Malcolm and Ross are not here to aid him whatever jest Alexander might plan,” Isabella said. The maid that the girls shared clucked her tongue, as Isabella had spoken around a mouthful of fish.

“Ross will be home from Inverfyre at Christmas,” Alexander said heartily. “Doubtless he will bring greetings from our uncle’s abode.

“Malcolm is too studious to venture the short distance from Ravensmuir, even to visit us,” Elizabeth complained.

“Uncle Tynan is a demanding tutor,” Alexander said quietly. “You may be certain that Malcolm is too exhausted each night to think of much beyond better pleasing his lord on the morrow.”

Vivienne stole a glance at Alexander, for he seldom spoke of his experience in earning his spurs beneath Tynan’s hand. He snared her gaze and granted her such a winning smile that she blinked. “What do you desire of me, that you would so court my favor?” she asked abruptly.

Alexander laughed. “I desire only to see you smile again, Vivienne. I am not the only one who has noted your sadness in recent weeks.”

“Doubtless though you are the only one who thinks a babe in Vivienne’s belly and a ring upon her finger would see the matter resolved,” Isabella said. The younger sisters rolled their eyes at this notion, their response only making Vivienne feel more alone.

“He will tell a tale of a maiden made joyous by the arrival of her first child,” Elizabeth suggested and the sisters giggled at the absurdity of that.

Vivienne did not laugh. She was, after all, the only one who thought Alexander’s scheme had some merit.

“You know how much I love a tale,” she said to Alexander, sensing that perhaps their motives were as one. “Though I cannot imagine that you know one I do not.”

“Ah, but I do, and it is a tale about Kinfairlie itself.”

“What is this? And you never told it afore?” Vivienne cried in mock outrage.

Alexander laughed anew. “I but heard it this week, in the village, and have awaited the right moment to share it.” He cleared his throat and pushed away his trencher.

He was a finely wrought man, this brother of theirs, and already Vivienne saw the effect of his recent responsibility upon his manner. Alexander thought now before he spoke, and he spoke with new care, considering his words before he cast them among the company. He treated the servants fairly, and his authority was respected. His courts were reputed to be among the most just in the area, his reputation already rivaling that of their father. He stood taller and was more of a man than he had been merely a year past when their parents had died.

Her younger sisters, however, were less enamored of the change in him. Once Alexander had been the favored playmate of all, and Vivienne knew that her youngest sister Elizabeth, in particular, resented Alexander’s new role, no less his demands that they all comport themselves with decorum. It was a remarkable change in the one who had been least concerned with proper behavior of all eight siblings.

But Vivienne knew that it had been no small challenge Alexander had faced since the sudden demise of their parents, and she felt a sudden fierce pride in her brother’s achievement. She did not doubt that there was much he had resolved or shouldered without ever sharing the fullness of the truth with his siblings.

“You all know of the chamber at the summit of Kinfairlie’s tower,” Alexander began, at ease with every eye in the hall upon him. “Though you may not know the reason why it stands empty, save for the cobwebs and the wind.”

“The door has always been barred,” Vivienne said. “Maman refused to cross its threshold.”

“It was Papa who had the portal barred,” Alexander agreed. “I have only the barest recollection of ever seeing that door open in my childhood. I fancy, given the details of this tale, that it was secured after Madeline’s birth, when I was only two summers of age.”

The sisters leaned toward Alexander as one. Elizabeth’s eyes were shining, for she loved a tale nigh as well as Vivienne. Isabella, who had made short work of the second piece of fish, wiped her lips upon her napkin and laid the linen aside. Annelise sat with her hands folded in her lap, characteristically still, though her avid gaze revealed her interest. Even the servants hovered in the shadows, heeding Alexander’s tale.

Alexander propped his elbows on the table, and surveyed his sisters, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Perhaps I should not share the tale with you. It concerns a threat to innocent maidens...”

“You must tell us!” Isabella cried.

“Do not tease us with a part of the tale!” Vivienne said.

“What manner of threat, Alexander?” Elizabeth asked. “Surely it is our right to know?”

Alexander feigned concern, and frowned sternly at them. “Perhaps you demand the tale because you are not all such innocent maidens as I believe...”

“Oh!” The sisters shouted in unison and Alexander grinned with the wickedness they all knew so well. Annelise, who sat on one side of him, swatted him repeatedly on one arm. Elizabeth, on his other side, struck him in the shoulder with such force that he winced. Isabella cast a chunk of bread at him, and it hit him in the brow. Alexander cried out for mercy, laughing all the while.

Vivienne could not help but laugh. “You should know better than to cast such aspersions upon us!” She wagged a finger at him. “And you should know better than to tease us with the promise of a tale.”

“I cede. I cede!” Alexander shouted. He straightened his tabard and shoved a hand through his hair, then took a restorative sip of wine.

“You linger overlong in beginning,” Elizabeth accused.

“Impatient wenches,” Alexander teased, then he began. “You all know that Kinfairlie was razed to the ground in our great-grandmother’s youth.” He pinched Elizabeth’s cheek and that sister blushed crimson. “You were named for our intrepid forebear, Mary Elise of Kinfairlie.”

“And the holding was returned by the crown to Ysabella, who had wed Merlyn Lammergeier, Laird of Ravensmuir,” Vivienne prompted, for she knew this bit of their history. “Roland, our father, was the son of Merlyn and Ysabella, and the brother of Tynan, their elder son who now rules Ravensmuir where Malcolm labors to earn his spurs. Our grandfather Merlyn rebuilt Kinfairlie from the very ground, so that Roland could become its laird when he was of age.” She rolled her eyes. “Tell us some detail we do not know!”

“And so Kinfairlie’s seal passed to Alexander, Roland’s eldest son, when Roland and his wife, our mother Catherine, abandoned this earth,” Annelise added quietly. The siblings and the servants all crossed themselves in silence and more than one soul studied the floor in recollection of their recent grief.

“My tale concerns happier times,” Alexander said with forced cheer. “For it seems that when Roland and Catherine came to Kinfairlie newly wedded, there were already tales told about this holding and about that chamber.”

“What manner of tales?” Vivienne demanded.

Alexander smiled. “It has long been whispered that Kinfairlie kisses the lip of the realm of fairy.”

Elizabeth shivered with delight and nudged Vivienne.

“Nonsense,” Isabella muttered, but the sisters elbowed her to silence.

Alexander continued, ignoring them all. “Though Merlyn and Ysabella had not lived overmuch in this hall, there were servants within the walls and a castellan who saw to its administration in their absence.

“And so it was that the castellan had a daughter, a lovely maiden who was most curious. Since there were only servants in the keep, since it was resolved that she could not find much mischief in a place so newly wrought, and since—it must be said—she was possessed of no small measure of charm which she used to win her way—unlike any maidens of my acquaintance -” The sisters roared protest, but a grinning Alexander held up a finger for silence. “- this damsel was permitted to wander wheresoever she desired within the walls.

“And so it was that she explored the chamber at the top of the tower. There are three windows in that chamber, from what I have been told, and all of them look toward the sea.”

“You can see three windows from the sentry post below,” Vivienne said.

Alexander nodded. “Though the view is fine, the chamber is cursed cold, for the openings were wrought too large for glass and the wooden shutters pose no barrier to the wind, especially when a storm is rising. That was why no one had spent much time in the room. This maiden, however, had done so and she had noted that one window did not grant the view that it should have done.

“Clouds crossed the sky in that window, but never were framed by the others. Uncommon birds could be spied only in the one window, and the sea never quite seemed to be the same viewed through that window as through the others. The difference was subtle, and a passing glance would not reveal any discrepancy, but the maiden became convinced that this third window was magical. She wondered whether it looked into the past, or into the future, or into the realm of fairy, or into some other place altogether.

“And so she resolved that she would discover the truth.”

“It was the portal to the fairy realm!” Elizabeth said with excitement.

“There is no such place,” Isabella said with a roll of her eyes.

“It is but a tale, Isabella,” Annelise chided. “Can you not savor it for what it is?”

Vivienne eased forward on the bench, enthralled by Alexander’s tale and impatient to hear more. “What happened?”

“No one knows for certain. The maiden slept in the chamber for several nights and when she was asked what she had seen, she only smiled. She insisted that she had seen nothing, but her smile, her smile hinted at a thousand mysteries.”

Vivienne’s attention was captured utterly then, for she suspected she knew how that maiden had smiled.

Alexander continued. “And on the morning after she had slept in that chamber for three nights, the damsel could not be found.”

“What is this?” Isabella asked.

“She did not come to the board.” Alexander shrugged. “The castellan’s wife was certain that the girl lingered overlong abed, so she marched up the stairs to chastise her daughter. She found the portal to the chamber closed, and when she opened it, the wind was bitterly cold. She feared then that the girl had become too cold, but she was not in the chamber. The mother went to each window in turn and peered down, fearing that her daughter had fallen to her death, but there was no sign of the girl.”

“Someone stole her away,” Isabella said, ever pragmatic.

Alexander shook his head. “She was never seen again. But on the sill of one window—I suspect I know which one it was—on the morning of the maiden’s disappearance, the castellan’s wife found a single rose. It appeared to be red, as red as blood, but as soon as she lifted it in her hands, it began to pale. By the time she carried it to the hall, the rose was white, and no sooner had the castellan seen it, than it began to melt. It was wrought of ice, and in a matter of moments, it was no more than a puddle of water upon the floor.”

Alexander rose from his seat and strode to the middle of the hall. He pointed to a spot on the floor, a mark that Vivienne had not noted before. It shimmered, as if stained by some substance that none could have named.

“It was here that the water fell,” Alexander said softly. “And when an old woman working in the kitchens spied the mark and heard the tale of the rose, she cried out in dismay. It seems that there is an old tale of fairy lovers claiming mortal brides, that the portal between their world and ours is at Kinfairlie. A fairy suitor can peer through the portal, though they all know they should not, and he could fall in love with a mortal maiden he glimpses there.”

Alexander smiled at his sisters. “And the bride price a smitten fairy suitor leaves when he claims that bride for his own is a single red, red rose, a rose that is not truly a rose, but a fairy rose wrought of ice.” He scuffed the floor with his toe. “Though its form does not endure, the mark of its magic is never truly lost.”

Silence reigned in the hall for a moment, the light from the candles making the mark on the floor seem to glimmer more brightly.

Alexander shrugged. “I cannot imagine that Papa believed the tale, but doubtless once he had a daughter, he had no desire to have her traded for a rose wrought of ice.”

“Someone should discover the truth,” Isabella said with resolve. “Doubtless some village mischief is behind it.”

Annelise shivered. “But what if the tale is true? Who knows where the maiden went? Who would take such a risk as to follow her?”

Vivienne clenched her hands together and held her tongue with an effort. She knew who would take such a risk. She knew, with eerie certainty, that this tale had come to light now because it was a message to her.

Here was the moment she had awaited! A fairy spouse would suit her well, of that she had no doubt, no less the adventure of a life in another realm. Fairies, every sensible person knew, were an unruly and less-than-fastidiously groomed lot. She would fit into their ranks perfectly.

So she resolved: Vivienne would sleep in the tower chamber on this night. She only had to figure out how the feat could be done without rousing the suspicions of her siblings.

Chapter Two

Vivienne’s task proved to be easier than she had feared.

She sat with her sisters that evening, bending over her needlework and fighting to hide her impatience. They worked upon a large tapestry for the hall, each embroidering a single panel. The completed work would never be so fine as those embroideries brought from France and Belgium, but there was a charm in it being made by the family.

Annelise had created the design, for she was the most deft with a piece of charcoal. Mythical creatures frolicked across the surface, each slowly taking shape with thread and color. Vivienne loved the design and enjoyed working upon it more than she usually enjoyed needlework, but this night she found no pleasure in the task. In fact, her threads seemed to tangle and knot with a will of their own.

The time passed with such slowness that Vivienne thought she might scream, and for once, she envied Alexander the need to retire to review Kinfairlie’s ledgers. Vivienne’s toe seemed to tap of her own volition. She tucked her feet under her skirts, hoping no one noticed her restlessness.

“You are making more of a mess of matters than usual, Vivienne,” Isabella noted, she who was as orderly as Madeline.

“I have no talent for embroidery, it is clear,” Vivienne said.

Isabella claimed the knot of wool thread from Vivienne’s restless fingers and set calmly to sorting it, strand by strand. “You have no patience for it,” she said, without censure. “That is different.”

“Still, you are usually more artful than this,” Annelise noted, studying Vivienne with some concern. “Are you unwell?”

Vivienne yawned and rubbed her eyes in answer, as if too exhausted to remain awake, then pretended to struggle to focus on her needlework.

“You do look tired, Vivienne,” Isabella said, sounding for all the world like their mother.

“It is not like you to tire so early,” Annelise commented. “You are usually the last of us to come to bed.”

Vivienne shrugged. “I was tired all this day.”

“And you did not eat your dinner,” a sharp-eyed Elizabeth reminded them all.

“Perhaps sleep would be best for you,” Isabella said. “And morning will find you hale again.”

Vivienne set aside her work with apparent reluctance. “I admit the notion has an appeal.”

“Go!” Annelise urged. “You can work upon your panel another day.”

Isabella smiled. “Needlework awaits our attention most patiently.” The other sisters laughed and Vivienne did not require further urging to leave their company.

She climbed the stairs slowly as long as they could see her, so slowly that she might have been having difficulty lifting her the weight of her own feet. She heard Isabella tut-tut and smiled to herself, then darted across the floor above to fetch and light a candle. The moon was new, so there would be no light in the chambers above.

Kinfairlie’s keep was no more and no less than a single square tower wrought of stone. It was tall, so tall that Vivienne’s father had once called it a finger pointing to the heavens, so tall that it could be seen from as far away as their uncle’s keep of Ravensmuir.

Kinfairlie had not been rebuilt precisely to the former design after it had been razed to the ground. Curtain walls, for example, were now believed to be too difficult to defend, thus Kinfairlie’s surrounding walls had not been rebuilt. The remnants of the old walls yet marked the property, though they were tumbled in places, choked with thorns in others, and had vanished in still others.

Despite this, the keep could be readily defended by a few stout men. There was but one entry to the tower, marked by a portcullis, and a wide wooden door studded with iron. The entry was cunningly designed so that an intruder would be tricked into taking what appeared to be the larger way, though that corridor led only to the dungeon. Once there, the intruder would be trapped and at the mercy of the laird. Further, the corridor that proved to lead to the hall itself offered many opportunities to assault any assailant who managed to pass through that heavily-secured portal.

Above this entry, the tower was simple in design. The interior was marked by a staircase, which wound its way upward, making a quarter turn around the perimeter of the tower for each successive floor. There were four floors in total, the highest one characterized by a sloped ceiling defined by the point of the roof. The banner of Kinfairlie, graced with a glowing orb, fluttered from the pinnacle of the tower.

Vivienne knew the tower and its whispers as well as her own hand. She knew—as she suspected did most of her siblings—which stair could be relied upon to squeak, which corner was dark enough to hide an eavesdropper. She paused on the landing of the second floor, the one above the hall proper, listening for her brother’s whereabouts. She strode past the one empty chamber on the second floor, which had once been shared by her brothers, and wondered fleetingly how her two younger brothers fared in their respective training at Ravensmuir and Inverfyre. Did they miss their sisters as much as Vivienne missed them? She passed the larger chamber shared by herself and her sisters, then continued up the staircase.

The next floor comprised the laird’s quarters, including a large solar and a small chamber in which Alexander kept the ledgers of the estate. Both rooms could be secured from the stairs and adjacent corridor. From his rooms, the laird could look in three directions over his holding. There was not so much as a candle lit in the lord’s solar, though a glimmer of light marked the bottom edge of the portal to the smaller chamber. Vivienne guessed that Alexander was yet at work.

She crept past his door, then continued silently to top floor of the tower. The staircase emerged in the center of that level, with a chamber on either side beneath the pitched roof. A ladder led to the peak of the roof, a trapdoor there allowing access to the flag. The portal to Vivienne’s left was slightly ajar, and she knew the room was full of items that had seemed useful and thus had been saved, only to have been forgotten and abandoned to dust.

The portal to the right was barred and locked. Vivienne had just bent to consider the lock when she heard men’s voices behind her. She snuffed her candle and slipped into the protective shadows of the second chamber. The light of a lantern became visible on the walls of the staircase so quickly that she feared she might have been spied. Her nose tickled at the dust she had stirred and she fought the impulse to sneeze.

“The old tale has made me think about this chamber,” Alexander said, as if explaining his ascent to another. His shadow was thrown on the wall as he approached and Vivienne eased back into the chamber behind her. “I cannot think why we do not use it.”

“Perhaps because you have a houseful of maidens,” Anthony suggested, clearly somewhat put out to be called for this errand at this hour.

“It is but a tale! A mere whimsy,” Alexander scoffed. He paused then, and sniffed audibly. “Do you smell a snuffed candle?”

Anthony sniffed dutifully while Vivienne fought the twitch of her nose. “It must have carried from the hall, for no one has climbed to these chambers in years.”

“Hmm,” Alexander said. Vivienne held her breath, certain he would fling open the door of the second chamber and reveal her there. “It must be as you say,” he said and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“We should not even be here, my lord,” Anthony said.

“And what harm is there?” Alexander demanded. “I would like to at least see the chamber beyond. Perhaps it would be a more cheerful place to study the ledgers.”

“If you will forgive my forthright speech, my lord, I suspect you would spend more time watching the sea, were that distraction available.”

Alexander laughed. “Perhaps it would not be all bad to have a distraction from those cursed ledgers. ‘Item: one pound of butter, three pounds of leeks, two hens, one laying, all due to the laird at Michaelmas by Cornelius Smith for the share price upon his plot. Paid and witnessed. Item: two shillings owed by the ale master of Kinfairlie for selling short of the measure on the Feast of the Annunciation, not paid due to a lack of coin before midsummer.’” Vivienne heard the laughter in her brother’s voice. “Truly, a man could lose his wits verifying the endless stream of such entries.”

“And a man who did not take the time and trouble to do so might well see himself robbed blind,” the castellan said stiffly. Vivienne could readily imagine him shaking a finger at Alexander as he scolded. “Your father spent every morning at the ledgers, my lord, and was known far and wide as a just man who could not be cheated.”

Alexander heaved a sigh. “So you have told me a thousand times, Anthony. I fear you will never find me fitting my father’s measure.”

“I can but try, my lord.”

Vivienne peeked and found the two men with their backs to her: Anthony held the lantern, which illuminated the tight disapproving line of his lips. He also carried several tools. Alexander bent and peered at the lock. He jingled a brass ring of keys and tried to fit one into the lock.

The castellan cleared his throat. “Do you think this wise, my lord?”

Alexander spared the older man a smile. “Are you not at least curious? This chamber has been locked for more than twenty years. As it is within my suzerainty, it is my right and my duty to explore it.”

Anthony sighed.

Alexander tried each key in turn, so many of them not fitting that Vivienne began to lose hope. She felt cobwebs against her cheek and dared not wipe them away lest her movement make a noise. The dust seemed to roil around her and she surreptitiously rubbed her itching nose.

To her delight, the second to last key on Alexander’s ring made the tumblers fall audibly.

“Ah!” Alexander stepped back and studied the beams of wood hammered across the portal. Vivienne peered through the slit between door and frame to watch him take a doughty tool from the castellan.

“We could have one of the men from the stable open it on the morrow, my lord. It would not be appropriate for you to injure yourself in such a task.”

Alexander laughed. “I am not so old and feeble as that!” He pried the end of one beam away, then removed the others with speed. He cast the beams into the corner opposite the stairs, then grinned. In the light of the lantern, he looked mischievous and unpredictable, as once he had always looked. “What do you think we shall find inside, Anthony?”

The castellan’s lips tightened impossibly further. “I could not begin to guess, my lord.”

“Then we shall look.” Alexander depressed the latch and pushed open the door. A cold wind immediately swirled around Vivienne’s ankles and she shivered even as she peered into the darkness of the chamber beyond. The urge to sneeze grew even stronger and she fairly held her breath to vex it.

Alexander claimed the lantern and disappeared into the room, his footfalls loud on the floor.

“It is large!” he said, his voice echoing. “These windows are enormous. No wonder the cost of glass was so high. But the view is a marvel. Come and see!”

The castellan held his ground. “I shall wait until the morrow, my lord.”

A chuckle resonated in Alexander’s voice. “Surely you cannot be afraid? It is innocent maidens who are said to be in peril of the affections of fairy courtiers.”

Anthony sniffed. “Of course I am not afraid, my lord. I am simply cautious.”

“There is nothing in here, save an old straw pallet. Do you think it is the one the girl slept upon?”

“I could not begin to speculate, my lord.” Anthony drew himself taller. “Indeed, I would suggest that you not touch it, my lord, as it may be filled with vermin.”

“Ha! They would be intrepid vermin who managed to climb to this chamber and subsist upon no food at all.”

Anthony held his ground, clearly persuaded that such bold vermin did exist and in fact occupy that chamber.

“And which window, I wonder, is the one at root?” Alexander mused. “Not that there is likely any merit in the tale, of course. This is but a large disused chamber.” He appeared on its threshold, beaming with pleasure. “We shall have it cleaned on the morrow. Perhaps I will ask my Uncle Tynan if the price of glass has become less than it was.”

Anthony cleared his throat. “If I might remind you, my lord, the treasury of Kinfairlie is not as blessed with coin as it might be.”

“It fares better now,” Alexander said mysteriously. Vivienne saw only the flash of his smile before he looked back at the chamber. “Indeed, this will suit very well.” Then he granted Anthony the confident smile which usually made the sisters suspect that he had a scheme. Before Vivienne could wonder at its cause, Alexander strode down the stairs, calling to the elderly castellan to hasten himself.

Vivienne was left alone, opposite the chamber that contained a portal to some other realm. Though she was sorely tempted to enter it immediately, instead she slipped down to the hall again. She complained to her sisters of a fierce chill and summoned a shiver most readily. She loosed her sneeze and her three sisters were quick to pronounce her in heed of a hot posset.

Once Vivienne had the steaming cup in her hand, she returned to the sisters’ chamber and retrieved her favorite boots. They had been a gift from her Aunt Rosamunde and their red leather was lavishly ornamented with embroidery just below her knees. They were also lined with rabbit fur and very warm. Her finest chemise of sheer linen was an obvious choice, as she wished to impress her fairy lover with her finery. It was cut full and gathered at the neck on a drawstring, as was typical, but was distinguished by sleeves fitted from elbow to wrist and secured with dozens of tiny buttons made of shell.

It was no small feat to don the chemise without the aid of one of her sisters or their maid, but Vivienne managed the deed.

She then donned her favorite kirtle, also a gift from Rosamunde, which was wrought of silk woven in two shades of emerald. The sleeves were slit from the shoulders to reveal the chemise and trailed to the ground, while the hem pooled upon the floor. The hem and neckline and sleeve edges were all graced with intricate golden embroidery. The men in her family had called it a most impractical garment, while her sisters openly coveted it. Vivienne then made a bundle upon her pallet, so that her sisters would think she had burrowed deep into her covers.

For luck, she flung her fur-lined cloak over her shoulders, for Madeline had taken that same cloak and worn it on her adventure. Madeline’s journey had ended well, and Vivienne liked the notion of the cloak bringing good fortune to its wearer.

It was always thus in old tales.

As prepared for a quest in the realm of fairy as she could be, Vivienne took her posset and a lantern and climbed the stairs.

The key shone in the lock of the portal where Alexander had left it. The massive door opened with the barest touch of Vivienne’s hand; the hinges did not so much as squeal. The chill fingers of the wind swept around her, and the night sky was visible through the three large windows on the opposite wall. Vivienne blew out the flame on her lantern, letting the stars light her path. She had a flint and would save the oil in case she had dire need of the light.

Vivienne took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. She closed the door behind herself and leaned back against the door. She could hear the sea and smell its salt on the wind, and might have been alone on a precipice. The familiar sounds and smells of the keep were lost behind her, as if she were far above the concerns and realm of mortals. She could easily believe that this was a place between two realms, that this hushed chamber was a threshold to adventure.

Though she considered each of the three windows lingeringly in turn, she could not discern which one was different. In truth, part of the issue was that she could not bring herself to draw near any one of them. Vivienne had never had any tolerance for heights, she had never been able to leap from the tallest step, or jump into the sea with her siblings. She knew the height of this tower too well to risk so much as a single downward glance from its windows.

Vivienne sat down on the pallet, sipped her posset and studied the windows more intently, even as she willed the erratic pace of her heart to slow.

* * *

It was a moonless night, the perfect night for a nefarious deed. The hidden man shifted his weight off his damaged leg by force of habit, ensuring it would be as rested as possible when the moment came to move, and remained still and silent. His scheme was perfectly wrought.

Despite his resolve, guilt pricked at him as he waited. It was not in his nature to deceive, or even to wreak vengeance, though circumstance had driven him to do both.

He had told Alexander the truth, though he had not confessed all of it by any means, and the truth was not all his own. And indeed, not all he had said was the truth. He had no ambitious cousin, for example, though his brother was ambitious enough for an entire family. He had no intent of wedding Vivienne before a priest and witnesses on the following morning.

He did, however, have need of a son.

The bells of the chapel in Kinfairlie village rang, then tolled the hour. Midnight. He tensed as he listened, fearful that all might not be as Alexander had pledged.

But it was. A hue and a cry was raised on the far side of the keep, and he heard the sentries race to that point.

With nary a moment to lose, he stepped out of the darkness and flung his grappling hook skyward with practiced ease. It caught and held on the parapet on the first try, and the scratch of its movement across the roof was lost in the din of Alexander’s distraction.

He took a deep breath and swung himself into the air, wincing as his left boot collided with the wall. He grit his teeth, ignored the pain, and climbed, his heart thudding with trepidation.

For truly, the most difficult part of his task lay ahead of him. He had seduced no woman but his late wife, and Beatrice had been willing.

Vivienne might not be willing. After all, the man who scaled Kinfairlie’s tower, unobserved on that moonless night, was not Nicholas Sinclair.

And the woman he meant to bed and kidnap this night was the only person in Kinfairlie who knew the truth.

* * *

Through the haze of dreams, Vivienne heard the bells in Kinfairlie village toll midnight. Her posset had put her to sleep, whether due to its heat or its ingredients, she could not say. She was warm within her cloak and comfortable upon her pallet and she spared only the barest sleepy glance at the windows.

And then he came.

She sensed his presence, like a prickling along her spine. She knew he arrived, knew with a certainty that should have been alarming for its vigor. She turned and opened her eyes and saw his silhouette against the window. He was wreathed in starlight, his fair hair gleaming with an unnatural light.

He had come for her. Vivienne did not dare to breathe.

He paused for a moment, the night sky framing his silhouette within the frame of the window, against the greater darkness of the chamber. She knew his gaze grew accustomed to the shadows, she knew he sought some hint of her location, or even of her presence. He was large, larger than her brothers, larger than any man she had ever met.

She liked that he was tall. Vivienne was tall herself and did not find comfort in standing beside a man shorter than herself. It was petty, to be sure, for a man’s measure lies in his spirit, but still she was glad to find her destined partner taller than she. She liked that his shoulders were broad and his hips were lithe. She liked that he was wrought lean but muscular, and she liked the golden glint of his hair.

Nicholas had had blond hair, Nicholas who had so cruelly cast her aside when she refused to surrender her all in exchange for another of his empty promises.

Perhaps she had found Nicholas alluring because she had known her destined lover would have hair like spun flax. Perhaps some knowledge of her fate had led her so close to making a fool of herself.

It did not matter, not any longer.

Vivienne stirred without intending to do so and the straw of the pallet rustled. He pivoted, listening, and she felt the weight of his gaze as keenly as a touch. No doubt he could see clear through to her pounding heart, for fairies were said to have uncommonly keen vision.

No matter, for Vivienne had nothing to hide.

“Vivienne?” he asked, his voice low and rich.

She shivered in delight that he knew her name, that he had anticipated her presence. He must have spied her through the portal between the realms. Her skin tingled with new awareness, her other senses awakened in the darkness that foiled her sight. The night was as velvet against her skin, the fur lining of her cloak was soft against her chin.

“I have awaited you,” she whispered, her voice uncommonly hoarse. She reached for the lantern and fairly spilled the oil in her haste, then fumbled with the flint.

He was beside her in the blink of an eye, the warmth of his hand covering her own. “Strike no light on this night,” he urged. His hand was strong, far larger than her own, so large that her fingers were fairly swallowed in his grip.

Yet his clasp was gentle. His heat loomed beside her, the scent of his skin making Vivienne’s pulse quicken. His thumb slid across the back of her hand in a caress and Vivienne was certain her heart could pound no louder.

“It is the flint and the rasp,” she guessed, barely able to reason beneath his disarming touch. In every tale she knew, fairies spurned metal. “You cannot bear its presence, of course.”

“It is the light,” he murmured. “I would discover you with keener senses than mere sight.” And he kissed her then, claimed her lips with a demand that startled her with its vigor. Vivienne gasped and her hand fluttered against his chest.

Of course, he had yearned for her. He had watched her from across the threshold, his passion running higher with each glimpse. She was not a stranger to him, as he was to her. Though she was far from experienced in such deeds, Vivienne opened her mouth beneath his even as she trembled.

And then his manner changed. It was as if her uncertainty had softened his desire, as if her cautious response awakened a tenderness within him. Indeed, he then courted her response. She felt it in his kiss, how he waited for her to become accustomed to the press of him against her, how he waited for her to respond before he deepened his kiss again.

Vivienne was charmed. Only a lover true would command his passion so that his lady was not afraid.

His fingers slipped into her hair, cupping her nape so that he could feast upon her lips. He drew her to her feet and the cloak she had only cast over her shoulders fell to the floor. He caught her against him before she could feel the chill of the night and she heard the thunder of his heart so close to her own.

She felt his other hand trail over her, touching her curves with a feather-light touch, as if he found her to be the marvel. Her heart raced when his fingertips trailed down her throat, her nipple beaded when his hand swept over her breast, her belly tightened when his hand rested upon her waist. Something hot and unruly awakened within her, something Vivienne had the wits to recognize as desire. There was dampness between her thighs and hunger in her kiss, and she knew precisely what she desired of him.

It mattered little whether they loved first or wed first, for both would be achieved in time. It could be no other way, for they were intended to be together.

When he broke their embrace, she was breathless but anxious for more of this new pleasure. She thought she could see the glint of his eyes and she smiled at him, wondering whether he smiled back. “That was wondrous,” she said.

“More wondrous than any had the right to expect,” he said, though Vivienne could not understand fully what he meant. Was lovemaking between destined lovers more potent? He cast off his cloak, letting it swirl in an arc before he cast it across her rough pallet with a graceful gesture.

When he reached for her again, joy rose within Vivienne. She could do naught but acquiesce, for this was the grand passion that she desired beyond all else.

It was Vivienne who stretched to her toes to demand more of him, Vivienne who let her hands cup his face to draw him closer. His jaw was smooth, like that of a mortal man who had just sheared his whiskers. Fairies, Vivienne knew, were eternally young. Perhaps their men did not even have whiskers.

Her questing fingertips found the pulse at his throat, and she was shocked to find it racing as quickly as her own.

“Surely you cannot be afraid of me?” she asked.

He paused, as if regarding her, though Vivienne could not discern his face in the darkness. “How could I have expected such a welcome?” His words were so hoarse that Vivienne felt her breath catch in her throat.

“How could I not welcome you fully?” Vivienne touched her lips to his and reveled in his gasp of surprise. She let her hands slide over him, as he had moved his over her, and knew that she had surprised him once again. He caught her close, and Vivienne let her hands slip into the silky thickness of his hair. She arched against him, bold in her newfound passion, and heard his sharp inhalation.

He whispered something, then caught her up in his arms. He held her captive against his chest for a heady moment, and their kiss left Vivienne dizzy and hot. He knelt on one knee then, with her weight cradled in his lap, and his hand slid beneath the hem of her chemise and kirtle.

Vivienne gasped into his kiss when the warmth of his hand landed upon her knee. His tongue danced with hers, fairly sending sparks along her veins, and Vivienne nigh forgot the weight of his hand.

Then his hand slid up her thigh, his fingertips against her bare flesh, though his kiss did not cease. She gasped when his fingers moved in the heat that none other than herself had ever touched, then she moaned at the sensation. He nibbled at her ear, he kissed her earlobe, he traced a burning path of kisses down her throat, and Vivienne was lost.

The sensations that assaulted her were magical, were surely beyond that savored by mere mortals, were the gift from him to her. Vivienne accepted all he granted and yearned for more.

His fingers moved, tempting, teasing, making Vivienne squirm with desire. He untied the lace of her kirtle and chemise with his teeth, he pushed the fabric aside with his nose and his tongue. His hair fell across Vivienne’s skin like a soft curtain, and she moaned that his fingers coaxed her to greater heat with every stroke.

He kissed her pert nipple gently, then laved it with his tongue. Vivienne cried out softly and he chuckled. Vivienne smiled at his delight, then moaned when he suckled her. His fingers dove within her heat in the same moment, his thumb moving against her so surely that she clung to his shoulders. Some tumult rose within her, growing in intensity beneath his embrace. Vivienne rode the crest of desire, uncertain where it led.

And suddenly, a thousand lights flashed in her mind’s eye, a heat of pleasure raged through her, singing her from temple to toes. Vivienne cried out in pleasure at this new sensation, until he swallowed her shout with his kiss.

Though she was breathing heavily, though she knew her flesh must glisten with perspiration, her lover granted her no respite. He laid her upon the pallet, removed her garb gently as she caught her breath, then cast his own chemise and chausses aside. Vivienne moaned and buried her face in the thick fur of his cloak, when he knelt down and tasted of the deluge he had just created.

Desire stirred again as he caressed her with his tongue. She twisted and turned, but he held her fast, allowing her no escape from the pleasure he was determined to grant. Vivienne writhed, the climax coming more quickly this time, she grasped fistfuls of the cloak for her lover was out of reach. She knew the moment was come, she bit down into the fur to stifle her shout of release, she knew she locked her knees around him and shook like a leaf in the wind.

This was what had made Madeline smile, she knew it well.

He was stretched out beside her before the erratic pace of her heart had slowed and Vivienne caught him close. She ran her hands over him as possessively as he had touched her, exhausted but wanting him to share in the pleasure he had granted to her. She felt the muscles beneath his smooth flesh, felt again the strength he held in check.

“Lady mine,” he murmured, even as he bestowed a kiss within her ear.

Vivienne reached down, knowing full well what she would find, and let her hand close around his erection. She wanted to return his caresses in kind, though she was surprised when he gasped at her bold touch. He eased her grip upon him and she moved her fingers as he indicated, liking that she roused the same tension of desire in him as he had in her. Indeed, she felt her own passion kindling as his breathing changed. It was potent, to be able to grant such pleasure to him as he had lavished upon her, and she reveled in his every caught breath and moan of pleasure.

Vivienne felt him shiver, saw the glimmer of intent in his eyes, felt his muscles tense. His breathing quickened and she laid her cheek upon his chest to hear his racing heart. She touched him with greater surety, learning quickly what he liked best, savoring her effect upon him.

He muttered something and caught her waist in his hands. The strength of his hands nearly encircled her, making her feel small and feminine. He eased her to her back, and then he was atop her. He braced his weight upon his elbows, and the hair upon his chest tickled her breasts. His golden hair touched her cheek and Vivienne inhaled the scent of him, the taste of the wind that clung to his hair. She felt the length of him against her, his flesh so different from her own, and stretched out beneath him, arching against his heat.

He laced his fingers with hers and she thought she saw his smile before his mouth claimed hers once again. His kiss was tender yet possessive, he kissed her thoroughly and with a languid ease. Tears pricked Vivienne’s eyes, for she had never expected such sweetness between her and her mate, and surely not so soon.

He settled between her thighs as he kissed her, the heat of him pressing against her. Vivienne parted her legs, knowing full well what had to happen. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it was not as painful as rumor hinted, and willed herself to welcome her lover true.

He eased into her with a care that told her he had heard the same rumors. Vivienne caught her breath at the size of him, then gripped his shoulders as she became accustomed to this new sensation. But the pain was only fleeting.

Indeed, as he moved, she was awed by a sudden sense that they two were as one. She learned his rhythm and matched it with her own, even as she felt the heat rising within her once again.

He slipped one hand between them and touched Vivienne once again, his fingertips making her writhe beneath him. Her body responded to his touch so surely that they might have met thus a thousand times, and Vivienne knew this to be the mark of their entangled destiny. A wild joy seized her heart, for she had won the fate she desired more than anything else.

Even while she marveled at this gift, the heat rose between them to a relentless crescendo. She laid her hand upon his chest and felt his heart thundering in a echo of her own. Two hearts beat as one, two mouths tasted deeply of each other, two bodies felt the spark of the quickening in the same moment, two voices cried out together in ecstatic release.

And when Vivienne fell asleep in the warm embrace of her lover true, she did indeed smile the smile she had yearned to smile.

* * *

He awakened to the sound of a cock’s cry in the village, so suddenly alert and filled with an unfamiliar sense of wellbeing that, for a moment, he could not name where he was. It was yet dark, though there was a smudge of pink along the eastern horizon. That light was sufficient to reveal the features of the woman who slept beside him, a smile curving the fullness of her lips.

Then he remembered.

Vivienne’s russet hair was strewn across the pair of them like a fisherman’s net. He stared at her, savoring the chance to study her unobserved. She was wrought tall and amply curved, though he had felt as much the night before. Her lips were full, her eyes thickly lashed, her complexion fair. He could discern a few freckles across the bridge of her nose, and again across her collarbone, which made her look young and vulnerable.

And the blood of her maidenhead stained the linen chemise tangled about her hips. Guilt stabbed him once again, though he dared not indulge it. He rose abruptly, putting distance between them, knowing that truth would do little to ease what must necessarily follow.

Truly, it was his own weakness that plagued him. He had not been wrought to use other people to his own ends, however justified his goals might be. He dressed with curt movements, his gaze fixed upon the woman who curled into the hollow of warmth his body had left, reminding himself of what he was compelled to do.

He was not truly surprised to find himself hating what he had become, though he hoped with all his heart and soul that the reward would be worth the price.

His daughters, after all, deserved no less than his all.

Chapter Three

Vivienne awakened, feeling slightly chilled, and nestled deeper into the fur lining of her cloak. She was well content, for she had learned the import of Madeline’s secretive smile. She smiled herself and stretched out a hand for her lover true, more than amenable to feeling his caress once more.

Vivienne’s fingers closed upon emptiness, and her eyes flew open. Surely he had not returned to his fairy realm without sparing her a word?

Only the first touch of the dawn lit the sill of the chamber and shadows yet lurked in the corners. The cold of night emanated from the stone walls. Shapes were discernible as shadows against the shadows, including one large male silhouette before the window. Vivienne sighed with relief.

He stood with arms crossed and feet braced against the floor, the sky behind him a rosy luminescent pearl. His hood was drawn over his head and cast his features in deeper shadow, though Vivienne knew he watched her avidly. She might have been fearful of his size and stillness, if he had not introduced her so tenderly to the delights of the marital bed.

But she knew sufficient of this man to feel no such fear. She granted him a smile, though she could not see whether he responded in kind.

She sat up, knowing her hair would have crept free from her braid and her chemise tangled around her waist, knowing she looked like a maiden thoroughly sampled and sated. For once in her life, she did not care that she was not so orderly as Madeline.

“Surely you cannot mean to leave so soon?” she asked. “It is still dark. Surely you can return to my side for a few moments yet.” She eased back, making space for him on the pallet, but he did not move.

“It is late enough,” he said, his words terse. He spared the barest glance to the window, and his tone did not soften. “Garb yourself. We depart immediately.”

Vivienne struggled to make sense of both his words and his manner. “Depart? But we have only spent one night abed.”

“And it is sufficient to require our timely departure.” He crossed the chamber and lifted her discarded kirtle from the floor, shaking it out with impatience before offering it to her.

Vivienne pushed her hair back from her brow. “But this is not my expectation,” she argued. “The tale clearly declared that there would be three nights of courtship, not one, and a red rose as a bride price before the nuptials.”

“Your bride price was considerably higher than a single rose,” he said sharply and tried to hand her kirtle to her again.

Vivienne stared at him in astonishment and a dreadful sense assailed her. Had she mistaken a tale for some other truth?

What had Alexander done?

“Hasten yourself. There is no time to delay.”

Vivienne rose reluctantly to her feet and took the garment from him, hoping her fears proved groundless. She tried to touch his hand in the transaction, but he pulled his fingers away. Whether it was by accident or design, his gesture made Vivienne’s confidence falter further.

“You cannot mean that you have already paid a bride price,” she said, her heart fairly in her throat. “Surely you but know its value and intend to pay it two days hence.”

“It is paid, and doubtless half spent.”

“What price did you pay?” She thought he might not answer her, so continued, her tone firm. “Surely I have a right to know my own supposed merit?”

“A sack of silver coins, one that your brother was quick to claim for his own.”

Vivienne winced at his harsh tone and made to defend her brother. “Alexander did not accept coin for my hand!”

“He most certainly did.” Her lover pointed to the floor with impatience. “Your belt lies on that side of the pallet, your boots on this side. I said we had need of haste.”

Vivienne tried to discern the features hidden with his hood. “You are not a fairy suitor,” she said, though already she knew the answer.

That made him halt and she guessed that he studied her anew. “Of course not. Why would you believe such whimsy?”

Whimsy. Too late, the truth was perfectly clear. Vivienne stared at the kirtle in her hands and felt a fool beyond compare. Alexander’s tale had been no more than a ruse to persuade her to sleep in the tower. It had not been coincidence that Alexander unbarred the door last evening.

Her brother had played a jest upon her, as so oft he had done. Vivienne had been deceived, and her choice in this matter had been stolen from her. Worse, her own impulsive nature had betrayed her, for her maidenhead was lost.

Worse again, it had been lost—and she had been sold—to a man whose name she did not know.

“Alexander is a wretch beyond belief!” she declared, not troubling to disguise her anger. It was better than revealing her fear. “How dare he sell my hand? He pledged to Rhys that he would not repeat his error...”

“So we know the merit of his word,” her lover noted dryly. “There is a plague of deceit in our land, it seems.”

But Vivienne did not care what he thought of her brother. She thought of her Aunt Rosamunde, who refused to follow the dictates wrought by men, and lifted her chin in defiance.

“I will not indulge Alexander, or you, by ceding to this arrangement,” she said firmly. Her lover stilled again, as watchful and wary as a hawk on the hunt. “I was not privy to this arrangement and I will not stand by whatever terms were agreed upon.”

“What is this?”

“I will not accompany you.” Vivienne glared at the man who had seen fit to purchase her, disliking that he hid his face from her. Was he a stranger in truth, or a man who did not wish her recognize him before she abandoned herself to his protection?

“You have no choice,” he said. “Your brother has sold you like chattel, and like chattel, you have no choice when or where you go.”

Chattel? He could not have chosen a less appealing word!

“Only a fool of a woman would leave her family abode with a stranger who surrenders neither his name nor his destination, a man who does not even reveal his visage.”

When he did not move or speak to soothe her doubts, Vivienne hauled her beautiful kirtle over her head and laced the sides with savage gestures. “No matter what price you have paid, I would suggest you depart from Kinfairlie afore I summon sentries against you.”

He closed the distance between them with a decisive step and caught her chin in his hand. His touch was not forceful, despite the anger she could feel thrumming through him, and Vivienne felt a dangerous weakening of her will beneath his touch. It was too simple to recall how he had caressed her, how he had coaxed her response, how he had cajoled her participation in their lovemaking.

She realized that only that act or these words must reflect his character, not both. Tenderness and harshness could not both be his nature.

But which was the true measure of the man? Vivienne knew that lies were more readily wrought with words than with deeds, but that was a thin certainty upon which to wager her future.

“Who will aid you, now that your brother has had his due?” he demanded and there was an unappealing truth in his words. “You are mine, mine since your brother accepted my coin for his own.”

She was no possession! “I belong to no man and I never will.” Vivienne stared furiously into the shadows of his hood. “You cannot compel me to do your will in this, for there is no bond between us.”

His hand closed around her arm and he lifted her slightly off the floor. She could not miss the truth of how much larger he was than she and her confidence faltered.

“Can I not?” he murmured, seemingly aware of her uncertainty. His thumb began to move against her flesh in slow circles, and even through the ruched sleeve of her chemise, Vivienne felt a treacherous desire awaken within her.

But desire alone was not to be trusted.

“I will not make the matter simple for you,” she said. “I will not be biddable!”

“And you need not be trussed like a lamb meant for the slaughter,” he said with impatience. “It is clear that our paths lie together, and more clear that our course will be easier if you accept the truth of it.”

Vivienne pulled her arm from his grip and stepped away, distrusting the power of his touch. “Show me your face. Tell me your name.”

He stepped back then, ensuring she could not reach his hood. His determination to hide his face from her only made Vivienne more determined to see him truly.

He could cede that much to her, at least!

“It is better if you accompany me,” he said, speaking more gently. “What if you bear my child?”

“After one night? That would be unlikely!” Though Vivienne scoffed, her spirit quailed.

His tone hardened anew. “You have seven siblings, all born of the same woman, and your sister conceived quickly after her nuptials. I heard tell of it in the village. It would not be so uncommon for your womb to bear fruit quickly, particularly in a family so vigorous as your own.”

Vivienne folded her arms across her chest. “Then I shall accept that prospect rather than departing with a stranger. The worst price of it would be shame.”

“Your fate might be worse than merely shame, though that is harder to bear than you might believe,” he said with quiet persistence. “Your brother was quick to sell your hand—why should he not do so again?” He leaned closer, his words persuasive. “What manner of spouse will you win without your maidenhead? And what will such a man believe if your belly rounds too soon? What will he do when you offer him another man’s son?”

To Vivienne’s horror, he made a dangerous sense. She marched back to the pallet, fastened her belt, knotted her garters and donned her boots. Tears veiled her vision but she would not let him see how he had disappointed her with his hard questions this morn.

She much preferred the magic they had wrought the night before. Had she dreamed the man who had met her abed with such respect and affection? She spared a glance to the silent and hooded man behind her. Vivienne wished she could be certain which was his nature in truth.

Fully garbed with her cloak cast over her shoulder, she pivoted to face him and made an impulsive offer. “If your aims are so noble, wed me then, and I will have no choice but to accompany you.”

He shook his head. “There will be no nuptials between us.”

Vivienne was shocked that he could consider treating her with such dishonor. “I am no courtesan and I will not become one.”

“And I will cross the threshold of no chapel before all that is mine is mine once more,” he said. Vivienne had no chance to ask after his losses, for her offered her his right hand. “I will pledge to you in the old way, for a year and a day. If either of us find fault with the other in that time, we shall be free to part and unbeholden from that point onward.”

“And if I bear a child?”

“It will be my son in truth, raised in my household and granted every advantage I can offer.”

It was a meager offer compared to marriage, but with her maidenhead gone, Vivienne feared that she had little with left to wager. She glanced at his hand, its strength gilded by a ray of sunlight. This was not how she had envisioned matching her path to that of a man, and she was not yet prepared to believe it was her sole choice.

Vivienne tentatively put her hand in his, and was awed again by the way his fingers engulfed hers. When he offered his left hand, crossing it over the right one then turning up his palm, Vivienne pretended to reach toward it. Then she reached quickly for his hood, so quickly that he barely seized her hand in time.

“I would see your eyes while you make such a vow,” she protested. “No man of merit fears as much.”

“You will not look upon me.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because I forbid it,” he said, his tone allowing no argument.

Vivienne chose to argue despite this. “You might be an outlaw, or a man whose repute I know well,” she said. “You might be a man who has assailed me in the past, or a man I loathe.”

“I assure you that I am none of these.”

“Your word will not suffice. You cannot expect so much of me in exchange for so little.” Vivienne sensed his hesitation and took advantage of it, pulling her hand from his and snapping back his hood with haste.

He stared at her, his expression impassive, his eyes an uncanny blue.

To her relief, he was a stranger, not some fiend whose advances she had spurned before. She supposed she should not be so relieved to have his name remain a mystery to her, but his steady gaze instilled confidence in her.

His scarred face should have done the opposite. His hood hung around his neck like a cowl, leaving his features bare. The early sunlight caught the puckered flesh of a scar. That marring line began at his temple, compelling the end of his brow to tilt upward, narrowly missing the corner of his eye, slashed across his cheek, tugged at the corner of his mouth, then ended in the midst of his chin, perhaps deepening a dimple that had always been there.

Vivienne was haunted by a feeling that he was vaguely familiar, as if she had met some of his kin before, but even that sense was far from strong.

He did not so much as blink as she surveyed this wound, and she sensed that he expected her to recoil in horror. Vivienne granted the injury a leisurely perusal, then met his gaze unswervingly once she had seen the whole of it. She savored her conviction that he was surprised by her response.

“You thought that I would reject you on the basis of this injury alone,” she charged softly. “But I have wits enough to know that a man’s face is not the measure of his worth.”

He stared at her for a long moment, either incredulous or skeptical. His eyes became a more vehement blue and Vivienne wondered what he was thinking. She was keenly aware of his hand closed protectively around her own and swallowed when he captured her other hand once more. His thumb moved across her flesh in a slow caress, though she could not have said whether he did as much apurpose or not. The tower chamber seemed to warm around her.

Even his presence changed the air, even the sound of his breath made Vivienne’s flesh tingle. She was aware of him as she had never been aware of another person in all her days. His steady regard softened her resistance to him in a most troubling way.

“Then what is the measure of a man?”

“His deeds,” she said softly. “Though yours show little merit this morn.”

A shadow touched his eyes and she knew that she did not imagine that his expression darkened for a moment. “Then let this be a better deed.” He clasped her hands with gentle resolve, then met her gaze so steadily that she could not look away. “And so I swear to you, Vivienne Lammergeier, that I shall treat you with all honor for a year and a day, that I will defend you and honor you, that any children you bear me will be raised as my own, that at the end of that year and a day we both shall have the choice of whether to remain together or nay.”

He loosed her right hand and his fingertips landed upon her cheek. They were warm, his touch as light as that of a butterfly upon a flower. Vivienne found herself turning, so that her lips touched his palm, found herself seduced anew by the reverence in his touch. His fingertips eased over the curve of her cheek, across her bottom lip, then he cupped her chin in her hand. Vivienne looked into his eyes and the last of her defiance dissolved.

The truth was that this man could have raped her the night before, but he had shown her tenderness. He had ensured she found pleasure on her first taste of lovemaking. Even now, he was concerned for the future of any child she might bear, and noted rightly that Alexander might make a worse match for her now that her maidenhead was gone. Even now, he eased closer, his eyes darkening with his intent to kiss her.

And Vivienne was weak enough to want nothing less.

He was wary, to be sure, but no man could bear such a violent and fresh scar without possessing some fear of his fellows. The wound had been wrought by a blade, it was clear, and she shivered inwardly at what he must have borne.

His lips closed over hers, his kiss resolute as he claimed what he believed to be his due. Vivienne knew that a more sensible maiden would have rejected his embrace, would have stepped back from him until all of his mysteries were revealed. But Vivienne found herself welcoming his embrace, found her arms twining around his neck, found herself reveling in the marvel of his kiss.

She rose to her toes, for though she was tall, he was taller. His hand slid into the tangle of hair at her nape, her hands landed on his shoulders, her breasts collided with his chest. She closed her eyes and there was nothing but his kiss, nothing but him and his desire that she depart with him.

Nothing but the desire he awakened within her. He caught her closer and Vivienne almost forgot all she knew to be true.

But not quite.

* * *

Vivienne tore her lips from his and he released her, his steady gaze fixed upon her. She retreated, her thinking becoming less addled with every step she put between them. She looked away from him and fought to find her reason.

Kisses and promises should not be enough, not from a man who would not even surrender his name to her, a man who had tried to hide his face from her.

Vivienne wished she had never seen his scar. She knew too many tales of men served false who sought justice, of a fearsome face masking a heart wrought of gold. She knew too many tales in which a bold woman and her love were the salvation of a man who had lost all. It was too simple to see herself within such a tale, too simple to forget that impulse had oft served her false.

It had been a tale, after all, and her belief in it that had led to this circumstance.

“Make haste,” he said softly. “We must depart immediately.”

“No. I cannot go.” Vivienne’s words fell quickly in her determination to make a sensible choice. “I cannot leave with you, not so soon. You must show me more reason to trust you than this. You must meet me here again this night.”

“Be not afraid, Vivienne,” he said.

Even with the use of her name, he made her conviction fade! She held up three fingers, hating how her hand shook. “Three nights the tale pledged.”

He shook his head and took a step closer. “The tale, whatever it was, was not true. We depart immediately.”

“I will have three nights courtship and a red rose wrought of ice,” Vivienne insisted stubbornly. She knew it was a mad demand, but she needed time away from him to consider her course. She needed to speak to Alexander, to find out why he had made this wager, she needed to think without her lover’s compelling blue gaze fixed upon her.

“There is no time,” he said.

“There must be time.” Vivienne hastened to the portal, intending only to flee. Did she choose aright? She did not know, she could not reason with the taste of him upon her lips. Surely caution was never rewarded poorly? She had so little experience with it that she could not be certain.

She knew, however, that impulse could steer her false.

A cock crowed then in Kinfairlie village, though she ignored both it and her companion’s muttered curse. Vivienne did not hear his footstep, did not guess that he had moved until his arm locked around her waist. She cried out, but he cast her over his shoulder with dangerous ease.

“Not yet!” Vivienne struggled against him, but he granted her no chance for escape.

“I have pledged myself to you, you have surrendered yourself to me and your brother has accepted his price,” he crossed the chamber, untroubled by her protest. “The wager is wrought, for better or for worse, for a year and a day.”

“I said not yet!”

“And I said that you had no true choice,” he said, even as he stepped to the sill of the window. “We have wasted too much time this morn already.”

Vivienne saw the ground far below them and panicked anew. “No!” she cried, fully aware of what he meant to do.

Undeterred, he seized the rope yet hanging outside the window and swung them both out into the early morning air with a bold confidence Vivienne could not echo.

Indeed, she buried her face in his tabard, clutched his shoulder, and prayed as her stomach roiled in protest. He planted both feet on the wall with surety.

“Hold fast, for I need both hands for the rope,” he commanded.

Vivienne had little choice, for she did not wish to plunge to her death. She seized him, knowing that her fingers dug into him like claws, and did not care. She did not remain silent, though she guessed he would have preferred as much.

“Help!” she screamed. “Awaken, sentries of Kinfairlie! Be of aid to me!”

“Be silent!” growled her captor, but Vivienne was no more inclined to heed his words than he had been to heed hers. She screamed with vigor and was delighted when an answering shout carried from Kinfairlie’s bailey.

A sentry bellowed from his post and an arrow flew past them, embedding itself in the wall.

Vivienne’s lover cursed, and descended with greater haste.

“Help me!” Vivienne cried. “I am the laird’s sister Vivienne and his man means to capture me!”

Her captor halted his descent long enough to swing her around and shove one of his leather gloves into her mouth. “You will waken the entire village,” he said, anger making his eyes snap with sapphire fire.

Vivienne protested, but her words were muffled by the glove. She did not dare to loosen her clutch upon him to remove it. She was cast over his shoulder once again, no more troublesome apparently than a sack of grain.

Mercifully, the sentries had already seen her and she had made her circumstance clear.

Her captor would not get far.

But, to Vivienne’s surprise, no second arrow followed the first. She dared to look and spied a trio of Kinfairlie’s sentries conferring in the mist of the morning. They did nothing to intervene, though they could not have been forty paces away.

Indeed, they leaned on their bows to watch.

What was this?

Her captor reached the ground, swung her around into his arms. He clamped her knees tightly and her elbows fast against her side, and she saw the annoyance in his expression. He strode through the village with purpose and she noted now that he limped. He still set an impressive pace and her struggling did little to deter him. Still the sentries did nothing to aid her.

He glanced down and must have noted her surprise, no less guessed the reason for it.

“You have been bought,” he informed her as he marched toward one of the crumbled walls. “And your fate is sealed by that. Your brother ensured that I could scale the tower unobserved and it is clear that his men have been commanded to not intervene. You need no further sign of his endorsement than that.”

Vivienne ceased to fight at his words. Indeed, she could think of no other explanation for events. Alexander must have given the sentries directions not to interfere with her capture.

Her grim captor did not say something else which Vivienne also knew must be true: Alexander would not have made such an arrangement without complete confidence in her future with this man.

Alexander must have known something to her captor’s credit in order to accept his uncommon suit. She could not imagine that Alexander would wed her to a man who meant to do her injury. Her brother loved a jest, but he was not cruel.

Who was this man?

Her captor was disinclined to confide his secrets in this moment. He cast her across the saddle of a horse hidden beside the crumbled wall. Vivienne managed only to sit up before he swung up behind her, caught her fast against him and gave the steed his spurs.

Vivienne was not so foolish as to leap from the back of a racing horse, though her captor held her so tightly that she had little chance of doing so. Kinfairlie’s chickens scattered before them, a pair of goats bleated, and Kinfairlie’s sentries leaned upon their blades to watch the destrier’s departure with indifference.

“All is well!” one shouted as the church bells rang the first hour, though Vivienne most assuredly would have disagreed. She wished with sudden vigor that she knew whatever Alexander had known.

She doubted, however, that the man behind her would tell her much.

* * *

Elizabeth, the youngest of the siblings of Kinfairlie, was awakened early by some ruckus in the bailey. She heard the sentries shout that all was well, so settled back into the warmth of her pallet. She tried desperately to return to sleep and failed.

Elizabeth was cursed with the ability to see fairies. Actually, Elizabeth felt herself cursed that she was able to see one particular fairy, a spriggan named Darg, who had a talent for matchmaking and had developed a fondness for Elizabeth since that maiden had saved that spriggan’s life.

On this particular morning, Elizabeth did not share that affection, for it was Darg who kept her awake. Darg was excited about some matter and insisted upon dancing on Elizabeth’s chest.

In fact, Elizabeth was wondering just what had compelled her to save the spriggan from drowning in that pitcher of ale. On this morn, it seemed that having left well enough alone would have been a better choice.

Surprisingly, that near-demise had not lessened Darg’s taste for ale. It was true that Darg had an unholy taste for mortal ale, though it affected her even more strongly than it affected mortals. Perhaps that was the root of her fondness for the brew.

“You should not have finished all of the ale last night,” Elizabeth said, her manner grumpy. “It always makes you restless, which means that I get no rest at all.”

Darg chortled and danced on Elizabeth’s chest. “Great deeds afoot at Ravensmuir; this day we hasten o’er the moor.”

“We are not going to Ravensmuir today, however much you desire it.”

Darg cried out as if in pain. Elizabeth grimaced, not in the least bit grateful that she was the only one in her family who could see or hear the spriggan.

“O’er hill, o’er dale, o’er rose and thorn, thus do the fortunate find their way by morn.”

Elizabeth thumped her pillow and rolled over, closing her eyes against the spriggan chatter. After a night of broken sleep, she did not much care what Darg desired or where the fairy wanted to go. The sky was barely pink. Elizabeth could hear chickens clucking and goats bleating to be milked, but it was altogether too early to rise.

She pulled her linens over her head resolutely and tried to will herself back to sleep even as she ignored the capering spriggan.

Darg danced with greater vigor, driving tiny heels into Elizabeth’s flesh like small hammers. “Fairy is one kind, mortal another; no soul of sense sees one in the other,” the fairy proclaimed. “Flesh and blood and death and bone; this mortal man will wed his own.”

Elizabeth was intrigued despite herself. She was twelve summers of age, had been suddenly (and alarmingly) endowed with ample breasts, and found the topic of men more alluring than once she had done.

She peeked over the hem of the covers and whispered, so as to not wake her sisters. “What man?”

Darg chortled in triumph. In truth, Darg was not a very attractive creature and did not always have the kindest motives. Elizabeth regarded her with her usual measure of suspicion.

With a final leap, the fairy dropped to sit cross-legged on Elizabeth’s new curves, and whispered gleefully. “A tale was told, some of it true; a wager made, the price come due. The man’s true name, no soul knows; what shall be done when he leaves no rose?”

Then the spriggan clicked her tongue in disapproval, sounding like an agitated bird.

Darg must mean the tale that Alexander had told the night before! One of Elizabeth’s sisters must have been beguiled by it -- and Alexander must have been playing one of his pranks. The sister would be claimed not by a fairy lover, as the tale recounted, but a mortal man.

Elizabeth sat up so hastily that the fairy tumbled head over heels from maiden to hard floor. Darg cursed long after she came to a halt, upside down on the bare wood, but Elizabeth did not care. She looked around the chamber and was relieved to see the tumbled tresses of Annelise and Isabella, auburn and fiery red in their turn. Vivienne, however, had burrowed beneath her covers and only the mound of her body was visible.

Certain that she would be cursed by Vivienne for her deed, hoping Darg was wrong, Elizabeth crept toward Vivienne’s pallet and abruptly cast back the covers.

Then she gasped in dismay, for the mound in the bed was not Vivienne. It was an old cloak, bundled to look like a body in the bed.

She spun to confront the fairy. “Darg, where is Vivienne? What has happened to her?”

The spriggan arched a brow, then brushed down her garb in obvious and elaborate reference to her rough ousting from Elizabeth’s bed. She took great care in straightening her cuffs before she replied, undoubtedly aware that Elizabeth seethed with impatience. “Ill-mannered mortals would show themselves wise, to look upon messengers with kindly eyes.” Darg put her nose in the air and marched away from Elizabeth.

The girl darted after her, knowing that only fulsome flattery would see her question answered. “Darg, I am sorry to have roused you so roughly. I was fearful for my sister.” Elizabeth bowed her head at the fairy’s indignant glance. “Though that is no excuse to be rude to one so wise as yourself. I apologize, truly I do.”

Darg sniffed, though paused to preen slightly.

“Please tell me what has happened to Vivienne. Only you are sufficiently clever to know the truth of it, while we mortals stumble in darkness in comparison. ”

“No more, no less than what she desired,” Darg laughed and the sound was a little bit mean. “Blades are not known until touched to fire.”

Elizabeth was fearful of these tidings, though her discussion with Darg was interrupted by the arrival of Vera, the older maid who roused the sisters each morn.

Vera thumped noisily through the portal, dropped her buckets of steaming water with a curse, then rubbed a heavy hand across her brow. “Awaken, my ladies! The church bells ring and the laird himself insists that you all hasten yourselves to early mass.”

Darg spat on the floor, communicating an opinion of early mass quite clearly, then disappeared through a chink in the wall. Elizabeth fairly growled in vexation, then turned to find Vera’s bright eye upon her.

“Talking with the fey again, are you, lass?” Vera chuckled at the whimsy of that and Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn. Any inclination she had to confess Vivienne’s absence faded before the maid’s skeptical manner.

Perhaps Vivienne had a good reason to be gone so early this morn. Perhaps Darg was mistaken. Perhaps Vivienne had a tryst, or a secret courtier, or a mission she wished none to know about. It certainly looked as if Vivienne had meant to deceive others about her presence, which could only mean that she had departed willingly.

“Awaken, my lovely lasses, the laird makes no concession for those of us who must labor to see you all, nay, nay, not he. He raises his voice and makes his command and expects all to be precisely as he decreed.”

“Alexander is laird now, Vera,” Elizabeth observed, and won a sour look from the maid for her comment.

“Be that as it may, he is not king!”

Isabella groaned and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. “I will go to midmorning mass instead,” she mumbled, for she was not one at her best early in the morn.

A gleam lit in Vera’s eye, one that did not bode well for Isabella. “His lairdship insisted,” the doughty maid declared with boisterous cheer. She trudged across the chamber and pulled the linens away from Isabella with a victorious sweep of one hand.

Isabella screamed and snatched for the linens. “It is cold!”

Vera smiled as she danced backward. “And leaving you cold is the sole way to rouse you, my lady.”

“Give me those linens and give them to me now!”

“The laird decreed that none should linger abed this morn, not even you.”

Isabella shivered elaborately. “Vera, you are cruel beyond expectation.” She sat up and surveyed the room in what was clearly a poor temper, wrapping her arms around herself as she shivered. “And Alexander is wicked to his very marrow.”

Vera chuckled. “While you are lazy in the morn, my lady. Rise, rise and hasten yourself to mass like the good demoiselle you are. We each must have some flaw and this surely is yours.” She gave Isabella a mischievous glance. “If you rose and attended mass, you could tell our laird what you think of his edicts.”

Isabella snorted. “If I were Lady of Kinfairlie, I should pass an edict banning church services before midday.” She made another unsuccessful snatch for her bed linens.

Vera marched away with the linens, triumphant. “But you are not Lady of Kinfairlie, and you never will be. You cannot wed your own brother.” She shook a finger at Isabella, clearly enjoying their daily game. “And the laird himself has demanded your presence. You had best rouse yourself, for you do take longest with your hair.”

“Because it is too red!” Isabella wailed and fell back against her pillows in apparent despair. She glared at the ceiling. “It is uncivilized to command another to attend mass so early. Alexander is a barbarian to make such a demand.”

“I hardly think it barbaric to be so concerned with the fate of your soul,” Annelise said sweetly. She had risen and washed while Isabella had complained.

Isabella grimaced then spoke darkly. “He has no concern for our souls.”

“I think he is impossible since becoming laird,” Elizabeth added. “To think that once I liked my eldest brother!”

Isabella nodded. “Mark my words, there is some jest behind this command. Alexander makes no haste from his bed in the morning either.”

The sisters paused to exchange glances, for Isabella spoke the truth. “Do you think he rouses us only to play a trick upon us?” Annelise asked, her skepticism clear.

“What else?” Isabella said. She pushed herself to her feet with a groan. “We shall have to play a jest upon him in exchange, and it will have to be a good one.”

“It seems unlikely that any jest of Alexander’s would be played in church,” Annelise said, quite sensibly. She had already donned her stockings and now tied the lace of her chemise.

The sisters stilled as one at her comment.

“Church!” Elizabeth whispered and her gaze fell upon Vivienne’s empty pallet. “Perhaps that is where Vivienne is gone so early in the morn. Do you think Alexander means to compel her to wed?”

Vera strode across the chamber and pulled back Vivienne’s linens with a flick of her wrist. The sisters and maid stared at the pallet in dismay, for they all had clearly thought Vivienne still asleep. “What do you know of this?” Vera demanded of Elizabeth.

“Nothing, save that she is gone.”

Annelise licked her lips. “Marital vows are exchanged in church,” she said in a much smaller voice.

“If Vivienne guessed his intent, she would be the one of us bold enough to flee such a scheme,” Isabella said.

The sisters exchanged glances of horror, recalling with dreadful clarity their eldest brother’s determination to see them all wed. Vera froze and watched them with undisguised trepidation.

Isabella pounced on the maid and shook the sleeve of her kirtle. “What have you heard in the kitchens, Vera?”

“Not a word, I swear it to you! Though the laird is said to be well-pleased with himself this morn, and demanding a midday meal worthy of a feast.”

“A wedding feast,” Isabella said sourly and kicked her pallet. “The cur!”

A tear welled in the older woman’s eye. “Oh, surely the laird would not plague dear Vivienne with a notorious spouse as he did Madeline? I heard of that folly of an auction, though I was not as yet here, for it was the talk of all Kinfairlie.”

“The talk of Scotland, as like as not,” Elizabeth said. “It was a folly beyond compare.”

“Alexander did pledge to Rhys that he would not auction the hand of any of us, as he did Madeline’s,” Annelise noted. Vera knotted her hands together, so concerned that she could not practice her usual tasks.

“But he has never summoned us all to early mass, either,” Isabella said sharply.

“And in your best garb!” Vera wailed. “That was what he decreed.”

“Surely he cannot mean to wed all of us this morning,” Isabella said, doubt in her voice. “That would be a feat, even for Alexander.”

“Surely he but plays a jest upon us, as once he did,” Annelise suggested.

“He has forgotten how to jest,” Elizabeth said grimly. “All that has merit to him is respectability.”

“But where then, is Vivienne?” Vera demanded. They looked again at the empty pallet.

Elizabeth began to fear that Darg had spoken the truth.

“There is only one way to know for certain,” Isabella said with resolve. “We must behave as Alexander anticipates and meet him cheerfully at morning mass.”

Elizabeth nodded. “And if he means to wed Vivienne against her will -”

“Or any of us!” Annelise interjected.

“- Or any of us,” Elizabeth continued, “then we must somehow ensure that the vows are not exchanged. It is time enough that he learned that all he decrees shall not be done.”

The sisters nodded, resolve gleaming in their eyes, then turned to quickly don their best garb for church.

Chapter Four

In short order, Kinfairlie village faded behind them and Vivienne’s captor pulled the glove from her mouth. At its removal, she spat once, cleared her throat and said nothing. She sat stoic before him, her straight spine telling him more clearly than any words that she was displeased.

Or that she did not wish to touch him overmuch.

He was somewhat disgruntled himself, having wasted a goodly amount of time in trying to persuade her, only to have her insist upon some feminine madness. The three nights of courtship she anticipated was no more than reasonable, but he had expected better of her than a demand for a red red rose wrought of ice.

His pragmatic plan had no margin for a whimsical virgin determined to see romance in all around her. His need to conceive a son of unquestionable paternity required that he find a maiden to claim for his own—though Vivienne’s passion abed had been a surprise. There was a sweetness about her that made him feel a cur to offer her less than the fullness of marriage and security.

But he had no such security to offer to her. He had paid good coin for her, and if her brother had been so willing to sell her, then he was a fool to feel any qualms.

Even if she had not flinched from the sight of him.

“You have nothing more to say, it appears,” he said, feeling her silence too keenly.

“There is little point. I do not know your name, your destination or your intent, and you are disinclined to confess any of them.” She gestured to the open coast. “There is no soul here to hear my cry, if indeed they had not already received instruction to surrender me to my fate, whatever it is.”

“I had no choice,” he said gruffly. “It was time we fled.”

She scoffed. “I cannot discern any reason for haste, given that none intended to aid me.”

There was little he might say to that. It was the anonymity of darkness he had desired, out of habit and the fact that her brother thought him to be someone other than he was.

He was not prepared to discuss that with the lady as yet. He let the horse set its own pace, for none gave chase to them. The morning was clear, the sky slowly turning a milky silver, and the wind was crisp. The steed that the Earl of Sutherland had lent to him was well-rested and moved with characteristic grace.

He was aware of more sensory pleasure than this. Vivienne’s hair was a loosed cloud, for she had not braided it this morn, and a marvel of rich auburn tendrils dancing in the wind around him. He did not protest the soft hair, though it blew against his face and furled against his shoulder. Its assault was unabashedly feminine, a soft luxury such as none he had known in recent years and he admitted to himself how much he enjoyed it.

He could almost forget the discomfort of this southern garb, donned solely to ensure that he could pass with less notice. He sorely disliked the constraints of the chausses.

He was particularly aware of that constraint in this moment that he was besieged by Vivienne’s allure. He could smell the sweetness of her skin, could see the creamy curve of her cheek and throat. He felt the ripe curve of her buttocks against him, and savored the long strength of her. He liked that she was tall, he liked that she was lean yet curvaceous enough to tempt his touch.

It was too easy to think of meeting her abed once more. After all, it would take more than one night to ensure that she conceived a son and there was no opportunity for delay.

He resolved then to savor each night in Vivienne’s embrace until she knew for certain that she bore his son. So lost was he in anticipation of what they might do together that her curt tone surprised him.

“You ride a destrier, as if you are a knight,” she said. “Yet your jerkin is leather, not mail.”

He inclined his head, sufficiently intrigued by her show of intellect to let her make her own conclusions.

“Is it truly your own steed or did you steal it?”

“I steal only women,” he said, surprised to hear a thread of humor in his tone. It had been long since he had made a jest, but the gentle assault of her hair lightened his mood. “And thus far only one, solely because circumstance demanded as much.”

She twisted to meet his gaze, her own green eyes alight with curiosity. He blinked, shocked that she was so unafraid of him, astonished by the clarity of her eyes’ hue. “What circumstance could possibly demand my capture?”

He frowned. “It is a long tale.”

A smile pulled at the corner of her lips. “You no longer give your steed your spurs. It seems that we have time aplenty.”

He studied her, incapable of tearing his gaze away from this merry maiden. What was remarkable was that she did not assume any tale would show him badly. She assumed the best of him, had been unafraid to demand more of him. For a man oft condemned by his face and equally oft denied the benefit of the doubt, that was potent indeed.

But tender feelings had led him astray before. He dared not care for this woman, who only rode at his side only until—and if—her womb proved potent.

He let his expression turn grim. “I have need of a son, a son whose paternity is beyond doubt. Thus I have need of a woman, a woman who was maiden until meeting me abed, a woman of a family known to be fruitful, a woman who will have no opportunity to lie with another until she bears that son to me.”

“You have need of a wife,” Vivienne said, with a small smile.

“I have a wife,” he said curtly and watched her smile disappear so completely that it might never have been. He knew he should have been pleased to have forced a wedge between them, knew he should have been glad that she turned her back upon him once more and freed him from the spell of those magnificent eyes.

But instead he felt a cur and a knave besides, for he alone had dimmed the sparkle of the lady’s smile. It seemed small advantage to have halted the lady’s questions.

“Though Beatrice is dead,” he added quietly.

Vivienne’s posture did not change, nor did her curiosity apparently re-awaken. As they rode in painful silence, he had a difficult time persuading himself that it was better thus, even less that such silence was his choice.

* * *

Elizabeth noted that the best silver was laid upon the altar at Kinfairlie chapel, and Alexander himself was dressed as regally as a prince. He was wearing his favored tabard, the one of deepest sapphire with gold embroidery, the one which made his eyes more strikingly blue. His boots were polished and the hilt of his sword gleamed. The entire village seemed to be gathered at this unlikely hour, their expressions bright with expectation.

Elizabeth took no encouragement from what she saw when she peered through the portal. She and her sisters retreated as one and exchanged grim glances.

“We have guessed aright,” Isabella said. “I know it well.”

“You cannot know for certain until we have evidence of it,” Annelise said, her manner quite reasonable. “There are no men at the altar save Alexander.”

Elizabeth took a peek and grimaced. “Though his preening can be no good portent for any other than himself.”

“Oh, my lasses,” Vera said, her voice tremulous. “I will pray for all of you, that I will.” She clutched the hands of each other in turn. “Remember, though, that a fine match oft begins poorly. A start does not a finish make.” The maid looked between the three maidens and seemed disappointed to hear no agreement fall from their lips. She patted Elizabeth’s cheek, then turned to enter the church.

“I will never wed a man so foolish as to think he can buy my hand,” Isabella declared. She straightened and flicked the edges of her shimmering green veil. “If Alexander means to see me wed this day, he will have no easy time of it.”

With that, Isabella hauled open the door, her manner striking for its lack of her usual poise, and stalked down the aisle of the church. Annelise and Elizabeth watched as their sister fixed a stern eye upon their elder brother.

Alexander, with exquisite manners, bent low over Isabella’s hand and pressed a chaste kiss upon her knuckles. She glowered at him, but he smiled as innocently as an angel.

“But I am eldest, if Vivienne is gone,” Annelise said, the waver in her voice revealing her fear.

“I will hate Alexander forever if he sees you treated poorly,” Elizabeth said and squeezed Annelise’s hand, wishing she could offer greater encouragement than that.

Annelise squared her shoulders and forced a brave smile to her lips, then entered the church in her turn. Elizabeth held her breath as she watched, but Alexander greeted Annelise as courteously as he had Isabella.

There was no doubting, though, the expectant light in his eyes when he looked back to the portal. Though Elizabeth knew herself to be the most unlikely to be wed next, still her heart fluttered. She felt her cheeks burn as she opened the wooden door to the church and kept her gaze downcast beneath the perusal of every soul in the chapel.

She reached Alexander’s side and was so relieved when he kissed her knuckles then looked again to the portal that her knees nearly gave out.

It was Vivienne, then. The sisters clutched each other’s hands as Alexander eyed the door with a mix of impatience and pride.

No other shadow touched the door.

Moments passed and no one came.

Alexander frowned, he spared a glance for the priest who shrugged. Elizabeth interpreted this as no good sign.

“If we await Vivienne, you should know that she was gone this morn,” she whispered to him.

Alexander nodded once, and not with surprise. Elizabeth felt her eyes widen that her brother had known that Vivienne would be gone.

Which meant that he probably knew where she had gone.

Alexander beckoned to his castellan and the elderly Anthony came quickly to his side. The villagers shuffled their feet, clearly wondering at the delay, and watched with interest as Anthony departed on swift feet.

The priest lit the candles upon the altar in the interminable moments that followed.

Just when Elizabeth thought she could bear it no longer, Anthony returned. He paused just inside the portal and shook his head minutely.

“Not in the chamber?” Alexander cried.

Anthony shook his head again.

“Not in the bailey?” Alexander demanded, his agitation clear when Anthony shook his head. “Not at the inn?” The young laird began to stride down the aisle of the church. “Not approaching the gates?”

“I am sorry, my lord, but there is no sign of the pair.”

“The cur!” Alexander spun on his heel. He swore, he drove his fist into his palm. The priest cried out in recrimination but Alexander was clearly so furious that he did not care.

He raised his fist in the middle of the chapel, his ringing voice carrying to every ear. The silver ring that bore the seal of Kinfairlie gleamed upon his index finger. “There was to be a wedding celebrated this morn in this chapel, but cur to whom my sister’s hand was pledged has broken his word to me!”

The villagers whispered to each other in consternation, though Elizabeth could not look away from Alexander’s fury. Never had he so resembled their father than he did this day.

“And I pronounce a price upon his head for his treachery. Should any person bring to Kinfairlie one Nicholas Sinclair, be he alive or be he dead, I will pay that person four golden sovereigns!”

The company gasped at the sum and the whispering began immediately. Annelise began to softly recite a prayer, while Isabella glared at Alexander.

Nicholas Sinclair? Elizabeth remembered him well enough, for he had had sufficient sweet words to compliment all the women in Christendom. She had never liked him and had taken enormous pleasure in vexing him while he courted Vivienne years past. That had been before she understood that men had any allure, and Nicholas had endured many practical jokes due to her.

She had not even known that he had returned to Kinfairlie, and could not imagine that he would plea for Vivienne’s hand with any sincerity.

Nor did she imagine that Vivienne would have him.

But Alexander dug in his purse, and held the glittering coins before the gasping company. The villagers craned their necks to see more coin in one man’s hand than most of them would see in sum in all their days and nights.

“My lord, it is inappropriate to make such an offer in the house of God...” the priest began to protest but Alexander silenced him with a scathing glance.

“And any soul who brings word of my sister Vivienne,” Alexander continued, “shall have four sovereigns -” the villagers inhaled as one at the prospect of so much coin “- eight if she is returned to Kinfairlie unscathed.”

He glared at the company, as if willing confessions to fall from their reluctant lips, then turned to his castellan when none were forthcoming. “Anthony, see that my proclamation is sent to all surrounding regions immediately. They cannot have fled far.” The older man nodded and bowed.

With that, Alexander Lammergeier, Laird of Kinfairlie, left the chapel, his brow as dark as thunder, without participating in the mass he had ordered for so early in the day. The sisters did not have to glance to each other to know that their eldest brother was fearful of Vivienne’s fate.

“What has he done?” Isabella whispered, but no one answered her.

“Let us pray for the lady and her safe return!” the priest cried and every voice was raised to join his.

Elizabeth, for her part, prayed that she could find Darg again, for the spriggan might be their best chance of aiding Vivienne.

* * *

Vivienne, too, was thinking of how she might win aid, when she was not wrestling with her disappointment. Each detail her captor confided in her made her circumstance seem more dire. He had chosen her solely that she might bear him a son, though that was not an uncommon desire among men.

And he had been wed before. His terse manner indicated that he felt strongly about the matter—doubtless his heart had been possessed so fully by his wife that her death had left him a grim shadow of his former self. Vivienne knew that it was thus in most tales and she felt some sympathy for her captor in his loss.

But these were poor tidings for her own future. Vivienne had thought her captor’s insistence upon a handfast had been merely due to his being from the Highlands, where old ways held more sway, and that it was but a precursor to a more enduring match. She had thought that the passion they had kindled abed, from their first moment together had been cause for optimism for their entwined future ahead.

But he loved his deceased wife.

If nothing else, Vivienne had hoped to be desired for more than any child her womb might surrender.

Despite all of this, Vivienne was achingly aware of the man behind her, she felt every breath he took, she was aware of the strength of his hands where he held the reins. She fancied that she could hear the beat of his heart and wished that she did not remember the taste of his kiss.

How much of a fool was she?

They rode in silence until the sun was past its zenith, then approached an abandoned structure on the coast. The stone walls were crumbling into the soil and the thick vegetation hinted that few had come this way of late. Vivienne guessed it had once been a hermit’s cell, as it was located far from even this day’s temptations. The coast was rocky beneath the point, the wooden roof over the structure itself was rotten, though part of it had been repaired of late.

Her captor gave a command to the horse which halted and stood its ground, ears flicking. He dismounted then and lifted Vivienne to the ground. He led the horse away to a patch of grass where it might graze. He took his time in tending the steed, removing its saddle and brushing it down, evidently confident that she would not flee.

And in truth, there was nowhere she might run and not be caught again first. She had seen how quickly her captor could move, even with his limp, and he was much taller than she. Vivienne was well aware of the high tower of her uncle’s keep of Ravensmuir still to their north, but it was sufficiently distant that even the sharpest gaze atop that tower would not spy them here. She thought she could see ravens circling over it, the merest black pricks against the azure summer sky, but dared not glance overlong in that tower’s direction lest her interest rouse suspicion.

Vivienne folded her arms across her chest and watched her captor, noting how he pulled up his hood once more, as if accustomed to hiding his marred features. Perhaps he meant to hide his thoughts from her!

Not that his expressions were readily interpreted. He had been impassive most of the time, more impassive when annoyed. Vivienne bit her lip, reminding herself to recall that detail.

He wore undistinguished dark garb, none of it wrought of fine cloth or embellished with so much as a symbol or a thread of embroidery. His chausses were dark, his boots darker, his chemise rough and undyed. He seemed to not care about the hue or state of his garments. Perhaps he was not vain. Perhaps he was but pragmatic. He was not poor if he had granted Alexander a sack of coins in return for her.

Perhaps he did not wish to be robbed while he traveled. Vivienne could not guess which was the truth.

His jerkin was of boiled leather, his dark cloak wrought of thick wool coarsely woven. The garment fell to his knees and was cut full. His belt was thick and heavy, a sheathed sword hanging from one side and a sheathed dagger from the other. The hilts of both blades gleamed with fastidious care, though they were simple of design. So, too, with the horse’s trap, which was sturdy but without ornament. He had stuffed his leather gloves into his belt.

The sole ornament he wore was a silver pin that fastened at the throat of his cloak. It was about the size of his palm and shaped like coiled rope, though Vivienne knew better than to ask to see it more closely.

He appeared, after all, to be in a foul mood. He brushed the horse with care, giving every sign that he was unaware of her perusal though Vivienne doubted that was the truth.

She wondered how he had found this refuge so readily. They had ridden without catching so much as a glimpse of another living soul. That was a feat, Vivienne knew, for this corner of Scotland was fairly thick with monks and traveling priests, with peasants and shepherds, and journeying noblemen, and the moors did not offer many places to hide.

Her captor knew this land, she guessed, though she wondered whether he had learned of it lately or whether he had been raised hereabouts. She did not deign to begin a conversation with him to find out. She decided that she would flee, at the first opportunity, and lull him into complacency until that time came.

Let him find another maiden with a fertile womb. There was no future for her with a man who loved his dead wife, a man who had need only of her womb and meant to abandon her after claiming its fruit. She would escape, while her family was yet within reach.

He granted her a piercing glance in that moment and Vivienne wondered whether he could hear her very thoughts. Would he ever grow complacent? She doubted that he fully trusted another living soul.

Save his horse. The beast grazed, clearly accustomed to such care, and truly its chestnut coat gleamed with good health. It was a destrier, a knight’s horse, with a white star upon its brow.

Vivienne watched with reluctant interest as her captor located a leather sack hidden within the shadows of the structure she had believed abandoned.

He had been here earlier, then.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. Without waiting for her answer—as if he had guessed that she had no intent of granting him one—he began to lay a simple meal upon the flat stones outside the small enclosure. Vivienne would have liked to have refused whatever he chose to offer her, on principle alone, but her belly growled. She moved closer, drawn by the sharp scent of a ripe cheese, and saw that he had bread and apples, as well.

“The bread grows hard,” he said without glancing up at her. “But as it is dark bread, it was not overly soft in the first place. I suspect you have never eaten the like of it.”

Vivienne could not resist the chance to surprise this man. “On the contrary, at Kinfairlie we eat brown bread every day but Sunday. My father always preferred to sell the fine flour and he said the coarser bread would not harm us.”

Her captor glanced up. “Then coin must always have been scarce at Kinfairlie.”

“What do you mean?”

“Few noblemen would choose to eat the bread of peasants. Perhaps you are unsurprised that your brother accepted my coin so readily.”

“Perhaps I am. My father was unlike most noblemen and my brother follows his lead.” Vivienne decided she had little to lose by provoking him. “Perhaps Alexander accepted your offer readily because he was deceived as to your intent.” She bit into the bread and met his gaze, fairly daring him to correct her.

He studied her in silence for a long moment, then looked across the sea without saying more. It was hardly an admission of guilt, but neither was it an argument against her conclusion. Indeed, once he had glanced away, he ignored her so thoroughly that she might not have been present.

Perhaps he had not thought their night together to have been so wondrous.

Perhaps his beloved wife had been more ardent than she.

Vivienne ate, astonished at how hungry she was and how good the simple fare tasted. When she finished, noting that he ate no more, Vivienne rolled the remainder of the cheese into its piece of cloth. He returned the remnants of their meal to the leather satchel in silence, then spared her a bright glance.

“We travel at night and only at night. I would suggest you sleep now.” Without waiting for her reply or assent, he pushed to his feet and paced the small area. He glanced to the sky and to the sea, then studied the empty stretch of land between themselves and Kinfairlie.

Vivienne had no desire to sleep, but she would not accomplish much else while he was so watchful. She retreated to the cool shadows of the tumbling structure and gathered her cloak about herself as she sat against a wall with some discontent.

A far cry from fated love this had proven to be! She drew up her own hood and narrowed her eyes, hoping she gave the appearance of slumber.

Indeed, Vivienne intended only to wait until her captor eased his vigil. Then she would steal his horse and flee back to Kinfairlie, and have the truth from Alexander.

* * *

In the end, Vivienne did doze, because her captor showed no signs of taking a repose himself. He paced and he stood, he leaned against the wall and studied her, he surveyed the sea. He moved silently, with the grace of a warrior, but he was restless indeed. Vivienne stifled the urge to tease him, as she would have teased one of her brothers, that he must be tormented with guilt.

This man might well be. He kept his hood raised and his dark cloak furled around him, as if hiding his marked face from the very birds.

Exhausted from recent events, Vivienne felt her eyes drift closed as the sun rose high. The sound of the waves lulled her toward slumber, though she was yet half-aware of her surroundings.

She was startled at the cry of a merry voice close at hand.

“Hoy, lad, there you are!”

Vivienne’s eyes flew open and she saw her captor pivot at the shout and draw his blade. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he evidently recognized whoever called him, though he still was wary.

Vivienne peered around the wall and saw a stocky older man approaching, leading a dappled palfrey. The horse was shorter than those in her family’s stables, and its fur grew long.

“Well met, lad!” the man shouted, raising his hand in salute. His face was as merry as his voice. “Though you did grant me a merry chase, to be sure.”

“Ruari Macleod,” the younger man said. He placed the tip of his blade against the ground and braced his hands upon the hilt. “I never thought to lay eyes upon you again.”

The arrival grinned. “Ah, there is no evading me when I am charged with a mission, lad. My errand was to seek you out, and so, you see, I have done it.” He bowed with a flamboyant air and Vivienne wondered if this portly man would burst his belt buckle at the effort. She was tempted to smile, so charming was his manner, though her captor spoke coldly.

“How did you find me?”

Ruari snorted. “You leave a trail fairly blazed by your passage, lad. If you mean to journey unnoted, you will have to do better than you have done when I am on your trail. Did you learn naught from me? All those lessons I granted to you about following some soul through the wilderness might have fallen on deaf ears for all the good they have done you.” Vivienne heard the lilt of the Highlands in his voice, more pronounced than it was in the words of her captor.

Had he truly pursued the younger man so far?

Why?

To her surprise, her captor seemed discomfited by this. “I was cautious,” he insisted.

“Not cautious enough,” Ruari declared with a shake of his finger. “Men have eyes in their heads and in these days whatsoever they have witnessed can be loosed from their tongues with the smallest coin imaginable. These are dark times, lad, upon that you may rely, and I rue that we are compelled to endure them.”

Ruari stretched out a hand in greeting, which the younger man pointedly ignored. He shrugged then and hooked his thumb into some increment of space behind his belt, squinting at the younger man as he surveyed him. “I cannot say that I would blame you for holding a small grudge against me.”

“Any grudge I hold is far from small.”

Ruari squinted into the shadows of that drawn hood. “You have grown harsher since last we met.”

“Perhaps I have grown wiser.”

Vivienne leaned against the stone wall and watched her captor walk away from his guest. He shoved his sword back into its scabbard, that gesture and his pose showing that he trusted the new arrival, despite his harsh words.

Vivienne was intrigued and eavesdropped shamelessly.

“Wiser? Is that your word for your circumstance?” Ruari demanded, skepticism in his tone.

“My circumstance is not my fault alone.”

“What of the price upon your head in Kinfairlie village? Is that due to the deed of another?”

The younger man glanced over his shoulder at this, but said nothing. Vivienne’s heart thrilled at these tidings. Her family had not abandoned her fully! Even if Alexander had agreed to some wager, their departure this morn had not been part of it.

Ha! She had known that Alexander had her welfare at heart.

Ruari shook a finger at the younger man, as if scolding him, though Vivienne could not imagine a man less likely to be scolded. “Four gold sovereigns is the sum named by the Laird of Kinfairlie himself for your sorry hide.”

Vivienne bit her lip. Could Alexander afford such a reward?

Her captor scoffed. “Did you seek me that you might collect your due?”

Ruari snorted with disdain. “You should know better than that, lad, though I will not be the last to follow you here.” He raised a meaty finger like a preacher delivering the moral of his sermon. “Dead or alive were the words of the laird. Dead or alive! Any man of sense knows that dead is easier. You tempt fate in lingering so close at hand. Had you the wits your father granted to you, you would be half the way to Ireland by now instead of pacing by the sea.”

Vivienne’s captor turned to confront the sea once more, the hem of his cloak flicking in the wind. “I thank you for your counsel, Ruari. Godspeed to you.”

Ruari continued, undeterred by this dismissal. “And four sovereigns more for the return of the laird’s sister,” Ruari added quietly. “Eight, if she is returned without injury. What do you know of the disappearance of this lass, Vivienne?”

“Nothing you need know.”

“Vivienne Lammergeier is her name, Vivienne Lammergeier of Kinfairlie. I cannot be the only one of we two who has heard that name before.”

Vivienne’s ears pricked at this. How could either of them have heard her name before? She knew nothing of either of these men.

“Your recollections are of no import here, Ruari.”

“Are they not? No good comes of using an innocent maiden as a tool for vengeance. You should know the truth of that!”

“She is innocent no longer, Ruari.”

The older man swore. He pivoted and paced a distance, then turned to confront the younger man once more. “And what do you mean to do about that? Have you wed the lass?”

“Nay and I will not.”

Vivienne’s heart sank to her toes at his conviction. So she was to be no better than a courtesan.

“Is this the root of the laird’s claim?” Ruari demanded. “He will have your prick for this crime, upon that you may rely! Some cunning man will drag you back there for the price upon your head, upon that you can rely, and the tool you used to do this deed will be the first sacrifice demanded of you.”

“Then I had best not be captured.” The younger man turned his back upon Ruari once again.

For the first time, the older man looked on the brink of losing his temper. He took a deep breath, reddened in the face, then bellowed. “It was not whim that made me pursue you now, lad, nor was it the prospect of reward from the Laird of Kinfairlie and his kind! I have no need of your secrets and your confidence, but I am determined to accompany you from this point forward all the same.”

“You will not do so.”

“Aye, I will, and I will tell you why that is so. Nay, do not argue with me. It is not because you make such a cursed mess of what is left of your days, though that would be reason enough. It is because your father saw the truth at the end, and thus he dispatched me to your side. I am to aid you, lad...”

“The time when you and my father might have aided me is long past.” Vivienne’s captor stood tall and straight, his tone telling her that he did not welcome Ruari’s offering.

“Have you never erred and regretted your choice?”

“Of course.”

“Then so did your father, and you have no right to hold as much against him. The past cannot be changed, only the future can be wrought in new design,” Ruari said sternly. “Thus your father taught me, and thus I know he taught you.”

“How unfortunate that he did not similarly instruct my brother.”

Ruari spat upon the ground. “You cannot say that your brother did not change his future to suit himself better than his past had done. There were other lessons he did not heed, to be sure, but that one was the making of him.”

When the younger man might have spoken, Ruari held up a hand. “We are in agreement, lad, as to the true nature of Nicholas and the weight of his crimes. Though I come late to your aid, my intent is no less strong.” He offered his hand once again. “Are we met in peace, then?”

“I have no need of your aid. Begone, Ruari.”

“You have need of all the aid you can muster!”

“I have the aid of the Earl of Sutherland, and that will suit me well enough.”

“Do you now?” Ruari arched a bushy brow. “And how much do you know of the Earl of Sutherland that you are so keen to trust his word? What will he have of you in exchange? These are treacherous times for those too keen to grant their trust, and we both know that you are within their ranks.”

“I know little of the Earl and his intent, but I have no other choice. He at least offered me aid when my own kin denied it to me.”

“And for what cost?”

The younger man held his ground and folded his arms across his chest. “Why did you come, then, Ruari? You will not depart without the telling of your tale, so tell it all, then mount your steed and begone.”

Ruari looked away, his expression pained, and took a few slow paces. He glanced back, his gaze bright, and took a steadying breath. “For many a year, I served a man, loyal and true. I served him willingly, I served him unswervingly. I followed him into every battle, I granted him my best counsel, I loved him like the father that never I had. He treated me well, better than one so lowly born as myself had any right to expect, and never did he ask me for more than my loyalty and trust.” He swallowed visibly. “Until a month past.”

“No,” Vivienne’s captor said, his voice wavering slightly.

Ruari bent his head. “Aye, lad, the end comes for all of us sooner or later, and so it came to the man I had served for most of my life. And when he lay dying, when he confessed his sins and make his reckoning, he saw that he had made one grievous error in his days. And because his time was short, he entreated me to set matters aright in his stead.”

Ruari turned and appealed to Vivienne’s captor. She listened greedily, savoring each detail. “He begged of me to find his eldest son, he asked of me to see the crimes wrought against that son redressed -” Ruari reached beneath his cloak and offered a sheathed dagger on the flat of his hand. The large sapphire trapped in the pommel of the dagger glittered in the sunlight. Vivienne peered at the blade, then noticed that her captor stared at it like a man transfixed.

Ruari continued with quiet resolve. “He charged me with delivering this talisman to his son, along with his heartfelt apology.”

“No!” the younger man shouted and turned away, marching to the lip of the cliff. “It cannot be thus.”

Vivienne clutched her own hands tightly together, disliking Ruari’s tidings herself. She had lost her own parents less than a year before and knew it was a wound that did not heal readily. She felt a sudden sympathy for her captor as well as an urge to console him. How horrific to have lost his father, to not have been present at his father’s end, to have been estranged from his father when that man died. There was a chasm that could never be healed.

“It is thus,” Ruari said, his tone leaving no space for doubt. “As surely as I stand before you, William Sinclair has breathed his last. As surely as I offer you the legacy that is your own to claim, William Sinclair decreed that you should possess Blackleith once more for all the days and nights of your life. As surely as my name is Ruari Macleod, your father charged me with aiding you in this quest, with seeing his disservice undone.”

Vivienne’s captor did not turn. “I thank you for your trouble and your tidings, Ruari, but you will not remain with me. Godspeed and farewell.”

Chapter Five

Ruari dropped the reins, left his steed and took a step toward the younger man. “Your father knew he erred! He knew he owed you better than what you had been granted, he knew in the end that he should never have believed the tales told against you. It would have killed him to know that you had been compelled to beg a favor from the Earl of Sutherland.”

“So you say. The shadow of those days is long and a dead man’s testament serves me far less than that of a live one.” Vivienne’s captor turned then to confront Ruari and she wished she could have seen his expression. “If my father repented of his judgment in truth, then he might have done it sooner. His forgiveness serves me little now.”

“You have more than grown harsh, lad. You have lost your heart!”

“Whatsoever I have lost has been stolen. Farewell, Ruari.” And Vivienne’s captor marched to Ruari’s steed, gathered the reins and offered them to the other man.

Ruari’s lips set grimly. He shoved the sheathed blade into his belt and strode after the other man, eyes flashing and voice rising. “How dare you speak to me thus! I have spent a month seeking your sorry hide, lad! I have been in every hovel and every inn between Blackleith and York, I have slept in places with rats so large the white meat could have been carved from the dark, I have gone days without decent food and spent nights battling fleas as big as my fist. And why, why did I do this deed?”

His voice rose to a roar. “I did this for love of your father, no more and no less! I did this because I could not bear to see him so distraught, because it was so unfitting for a man of his ilk to be begging me—me!—to ensure that he could find eternal peace.”

Vivienne’s captor did not respond, nor did his stance soften.

Undeterred, Ruari stalked the younger man and seized his arm. “I did this because your father demanded more than my word, more than my promise. He demanded that I pledge my own soul’s salvation upon the relic in this blade’s hilt, that I cut my finger and shed my own blood upon the blade known to hold every oath every wrought by any man in your family. This blade!”

He shoved the sheathed knife at the younger man again, who reluctantly accepted its burden. Vivienne could see her captor’s reverence for the weapon in the way he handled it, and knew the token did not mean so little to him as he would have had Ruari believe.

“I did this because the blood of kings courses through your veins, lad, and I swore that if you were too dispirited to fight for your due, then I would do it for you. And what reward do I receive?”

Ruari smartly snapped the reins of his steed from the younger man’s grip. “Not so much as a word of gratitude. Not so much as a greeting. Not so much as a handshake between men. Oh, the world has become a sorry place when men cannot even allow courtesy between each other.”

The younger man glanced up. “All well said, Ruari, though I do not recall being offered a great deal of courtesy when all went awry at Blackleith.”

Ruari swallowed, then nodded his head slowly. “Fair enough, but you must forgive the past, lad, to see yourself bereft of its burden.”

Vivienne’s captor closed the distance between the two men with quick steps, his posture menacing, then deliberately flicked back his hood. His scar seemed more cruel in the afternoon sunlight, and the hardness of his expression did little to soften its effect. “I will never be bereft of this mark of the past.”

The older man winced, looked away, then met the younger man’s gaze again with an obvious effort. “I did not know,” he said quietly.

“The past will be forgiven when it has been avenged, Ruari. You need not linger to know it will be so.”

Ruari’s expression brightened at this grim pronouncement. “You do mean to fight, then? You have not surrendered fully?”

“I never meant to leave injustice be. Such a wound as this, though, must heal, and it was not the sum of my injuries. Praise be the Earl of Sutherland took me into his own abode, or I should be bleeding in ditch yet with no aid from my own kin.”

Vivienne’s captor walked away, turning the blade in his hands. The older man’s lips tightened grimly as he obviously noted her captor’s limp.

Vivienne could not fully believe what she had heard. Her captor had been cheated of his holding somehow and his family had done nothing to aid him! It was outrageous treachery and she could not blame him for being bitter and angry. Indeed, she was prepared to argue with this Ruari on his behalf, for no man should be so poorly served by his own kin.

But wait. Her captor’s brother was named Nicholas. Vivienne paused to reconsider what she had heard. And the holding in question was named Blackleith. Why was that name familiar?

Her captor’s father had been William Sinclair.

Vivienne gasped in sudden realization of how her captor and Ruari Macleod could have heard her name before. Nicholas Sinclair had had an older brother, an older brother who was to inherit their family holding of Blackleith.

Could her captor be Erik Sinclair?

That man paused and glanced toward the half-fallen structure where she supposedly slumbered, perhaps having heard her gasp of dismay. Vivienne instinctively tried to make herself smaller, but Ruari must have spied her.

“There is someone there,” he declared. “Is it the laird’s sister in truth?”

Vivienne huddled lower into her cloak, hoping she appeared as if she still slept. She heard the crunch of booted feet approaching, and, knowing as she did who walked with such an uneven pace, her pulse began to flutter. She still feigned sleep, hoping against hope that she would not be caught eavesdropping.

She heard him halt before her, smelled his skin, knew he was but an arm’s length away from her. She resolutely kept her eyes closed.

“Vivienne,” her captor said, a thread of humor in his words. “You fool no one when your breath comes so quickly as that.”

She opened her eyes to find him offering his gloved hand to her. She could not read the expression in his eyes.

“Vivienne,” Ruari breathed. He peered more closely at Vivienne. “It is no marvel that Nicholas was so vexed that she denied him. She is indeed a beauty.”

“You are Erik Sinclair,” Vivienne said to her captor, and he had the grace to not deny her conclusion. He merely bowed his head in acknowledgement, his gaze bright as he watched her. “Why me? Why ride all the length of Scotland to claim me?” she asked softly. “There must be maidens aplenty betwixt here and Blackleith.” To her astonishment, it was Ruari who answered her.

“But you are the sole maiden who ever denied Nicholas Sinclair,” that man said. “And oh, it irked him mightily, though I must say that he did not do justice to your fair features in his account of his failure.”

“It was a marvel that he even admitted as much,” Erik said.

Ruari snorted. “He was neither the first nor the last man to admit more than was prudent after consuming too much ale. I do not doubt that he would have preferred to keep the tale to himself, but the ale loosened his tongue and he made the error of speaking in public company so the tale traveled far.” The older man smiled at Vivienne. “He was soundly mocked for his inability to seduce you, of that you can be certain.”

“But still, I do not understand...” Vivienne paused and stared at Erik in dawning horror. “You chose me, purely to irk your brother, purely to claim what he had been unable to possess? You chose me for vengeance?”

A muscle twitched in Erik’s jaw and his expression turned yet more grim. He met her outraged gaze without blinking, however, and nodded but once. “That would be the simple explanation.”

“As it is truth, there is no need for another more elaborate!” Vivienne’s thoughts flew. “You must have told Alexander that you were Nicholas. Then he would have thought he arranged a match that would please me.”

Erik shrugged. “I knew only that Nicholas had courted you and that you had spurned him. When I heard that you were yet unwed, I thought it likely that your family had found greater favor with the match than you had done.”

“Nicholas proposed a mating, not a match,” Vivienne retorted.

Erik shrugged again.

“But then, you have done no different! And I was fool enough to accept your advances!”

Erik merely watched her, letting her make her own conclusions. His complacence infuriated Vivienne as little else could have done. Erik had chosen her, he would use her, he would cast her aside when he had his son of her, and he did not even have the grace to be ashamed of his deeds.

It was difficult to be certain which brother was the less honorable!

“Then it is true that no good deed goes unpunished,” Vivienne said, not troubling to hide her anger. “I did not tell my family of the base manners of Nicholas Sinclair, for I saw no reason to defame a man when he was unlikely to return. And what reward is mine for such courtesy? My brother, out of ignorance of the Sinclair brothers and their dark schemes, believed that Nicholas might come court my hand. Worse, he thought that I might welcome that suit!”

Ruari clicked his tongue in disapproval and ran a hand over his brow. The older man sat down heavily, as if burdened overmuch by what he had learned.

Vivienne glared at Erik. “And what will be my fate in this? You have already despoiled me and kidnapped me. Do you mean to leave me for dead in some forgotten corner of Christendom once I have served your purpose? Will I be left to earn my keep as a harlot in some distant hall once you have had your child of me? Or will you return me to Kinfairlie to collect my brother’s offered ransom? It is you who have called me chattel, after all!”

“I have already told you,” Erik said curtly. “I mean to conceive a son with you, a son whose paternity cannot be questioned, and I meant to raise that son as my own. The Earl of Sutherland will ensure your safety while you ripen, thus he and I have already agreed. You will rewarded more richly than any courtesan has ever been paid for her trouble, and whatsoever you do after that is entirely your concern.”

He managed to say no more, for Vivienne slapped his face with all her might. “Wretch!” she cried. “No man of honor treats a woman thus!” Her words plus her blow wrought silence between the three of them.

Then Ruari whistled between his teeth. “She is far from biddable, this wench.”

“I am no wench!” Vivienne cried, then granted Erik her most ferocious glare. “You will have to tie me down to get a child upon me, and murder me to tear it from my arms. I will surrender nothing to the likes of you, no matter what the cost to myself.”

Erik’s eyes were an unholy blue as he regarded her, his words uttered with soft menace. “If that is what is required, then so be it,” he said, then turned upon his heel and left her fuming.

“You will never best a Sinclair, lass, upon that you can rely,” Ruari counseled in an undertone. “Better grant him his desire easily and be done with it.”

“On the contrary, I have bested a Sinclair before,” Vivienne retorted, turning upon the older man. “And I shall do it again, Ruari Macleod, upon that you can rely.”

* * *

Erik stared at the swelling of the sea, fighting his desire to soothe Vivienne. She was enraged, as any reasonable woman would be. It was true that he had chosen her because she had spurned Nicholas, though not for vengeance alone. She had been the sole person he knew who had an immunity to Nicholas’ charm. Given all that he had endured at Nicholas’ instigation, that had seemed a compelling enough reason to choose her for his own.

The lady, however, might see matters otherwise. It was better to say less, in his opinion, than to cast fuel on the flames of her fury. Beatrice had been able to turn his own words against him so adroitly that he had learned long ago to say less to an angry woman rather than more.

Erik cast a sidelong glance in Vivienne’s direction, her posture making it clear that she was still livid. She stood with her chin high and her arms folded across her chest as she stared back toward Kinfairlie. The setting sun danced in her hair, the loose tendrils waving on the rising wind.

“I understand now why you did not wed her,” Ruari said from sudden proximity. “You cannot know that she will bring you a son until she does.”

“And if so, and if she is willing, then I will wed her, but not before.”

“And if not?”

“Then I shall take another maiden to my bed. I have little choice, Ruari, for the Earl of Sutherland has decreed that he will aid me only if there is clear succession for Blackleith.”

“He is not the only one who tires of war, then.” Ruari shook his head. “But it is a poor way for man and woman to be together, that is for certain.”

“I handfasted to her,” Erik offered, wanting his father’s loyal servant to think somewhat better of him.

“Did you then?” Ruari nodded approval. “’Tis better than naught and, in the circumstance, a wise choice.”

The two men looked as one toward the lady, still standing as straight as a blade and appearing to ignore them utterly.

“A handfasting is a scarce measure for most women these days, though,” Ruari acknowledged. “They want the blessing of a priest, as I expect this one does.”

“If all is well in a year, then she will have it.” Erik spared another glance to Vivienne. He touched his cheek, which yet stung from her blow, and wondered how he would meet her abed this night. “Though it will take a measure of charm I may not possess to coax her abed again.”

Ruari chuckled. “You might be surprised, lad. She could not be so angered with you if she did not have some fondness for you.” He clapped Erik on the shoulder. “And there are those fond of a woman who speaks her thoughts, no less one so prepared to demand that all meet a high moral code. She might well be a good partner for you in this quest.”

Erik was not certain that the older man spoke rightly, but he was slightly encouraged. And there was but one way to create a son, so far as he knew, so he would have to mend matters with Vivienne this very night. If nothing else, he could ensure that they were without an audience for an interval.

He pointed to the north. “If you ride along the coast, Ruari, you will find a copse of trees afore the sun sinks much lower. I will meet you there shortly.”

“And what is this?” the older man demanded, clearly indignant that he was being dispatched. “You will not be rid of me so readily as that! I pledged to your own father...”

“I do not mean to evade you, Ruari,” Erik said, interrupting what would likely become a long tirade. “In fact, I doubt it could be done.”

“And there is the truth of it, to be sure! I am honorbound to aid you, lad...”

“Then aid me now and ride ahead.” Erik took a coil of rope from his saddlebag and spared his companion a steady glance. “There is a deed I must do afore we ride this night, and I would not have a witness.”

The older man frowned. “You cannot mean to injure the lass. She may be outspoken but she is not wicked, and she does little in truth to injure you.” Ruari squinted at Erik. “Save speaking the truth when it might be unwelcome.”

“I have need of a son, and she named the terms herself. My intent is to persuade her by less dire means. By the time darkness falls fully, I will meet you at that copse of trees.”

“With the lady, of course.”

“Of course, be she willing or nay.”

Ruari appeared to be skeptical as he granted Vivienne another glance. Her pose had not eased a whit. “I shall pray for you, lad, that you do not sustain greater injury than already you have.”

Erik inclined his head. “I thank you for that.”

As Ruari nodded and strode away, Erik pivoted to find that Vivienne now faced him. She watched him with wary eyes, poised like a doe intending to flee, hair tossing in the wind. He hoped she would not make this difficult, then reminded himself not to care.

One son was all he needed to set matters to rights.

And he needed that son soon.

* * *

Vivienne swallowed as Erik began to stride toward her. His expression was grim and the rope he carried was no good portent of his intent. She took a step backward and realized that she stood upon the point itself, nothing but a tumble of rocks to the sea behind her. His pace toward her was relentless, and she noted with dread that his companion was leaving.

The sorry fact was that Ruari had revealed a number of intriguing details, facts that could have made her more welcoming of Erik’s attentions if he had confessed some noble intent with regard to her. She was skeptical that Erik would confide any truth in her this night, given that length of rope.

Erik paused a trio of steps away. He rested his weight upon his good leg, as she had seen him do before, and studied her. “You greeted me with enthusiasm last night,” he said quietly. “Will you readily do as much on this one?”

“Last night, I thought you were my destined lover,” Vivienne declared. “While now I know you to be a man determined to avenge himself upon his brother at any cost.”

She could have sworn a twinkle lit his eye. “A destined lover? Surely not. I thought you too sensible for such folly.”

Vivienne’s face felt aflame as she nodded, so embarrassed was she by what she had believed. “It was because of Alexander’s tale, of course.”

“What tale?”

“Do you not know what he said to encourage me to sleep in that chamber?”

Erik shook his head. “He pledged only that you would be there. He did not tell me how or why.” They stood in silence for a moment, then he eased his stance. “Tell me of it. How would such a destined lover have found you there, according to the tale?”

Vivienne eyed the rope and decided that recounting this tale was the less troubling possibility for her next few moments. “By spying me through some portal between the realms...”

“What realms?”

“The realms of fairies and of mortals.” What might have passed for a smile touched his lips and Vivienne took a shaking breath. “The tale Alexander recounted was of a maiden, seduced each of three nights in sequence by a fairy lover smitten with her charms, then captured as his wife for all eternity. One of the windows in that chamber is reputed to open unto the fairy realm, by his accounting, and the maiden, once she departed thus, was never seen again.”

“She was stolen then, as you were.”

“She was courted by her lover true,” Vivienne corrected firmly. “And was claimed for the bride price of a red red rose, a fairy rose which proved to be wrought of ice. The mark of its melting remains upon the floor of Kinfairlie’s hall, though the event occurred years past.”

“Ah, so this is the root of your demand for a three night courtship and a red red rose.”

Vivienne only flushed more deeply.

Erik regarded her with an amusement that softened his features in a most alluring way. Vivienne wished he would look stern again, for it was easier to distrust him fully then. “And you believed this tale, with solely the proof of a glimmer upon the floor?”

“It was true. It is true. I believe it yet.” Vivienne met his skeptical gaze. “It is not uncommon in these parts for mortals to find their way to the fairy realm, no less to be taken there. Not a hundred years ago, Thomas of Erceldoune did the very same, though he returned briefly to recount the tale of it.”

“Doubtless he but strayed away from home and concocted a finer tale upon his return than the truth.”

“He proved where he had been, by predicting future events with alacrity,” Vivienne argued. “Fairies can see the future, so he proved his visit there when his portents proved true.”

“But there is no fairy realm. There is naught in all creation save what a man can see and hold in his hands.”

“I know that to be less than the truth.”

“Yet you did not meet a fairy lover, much less a destined one.”

And Vivienne could summon no argument against that. All the same, their gazes locked and held for a long moment, a moment in which the wind seemed to still around them and the air grow warm. Vivienne recalled her instinctive desire to welcome this man, no less the magic they had wrought together in the tower chamber so easily. She stared into his eyes and remembered her curious sense that they loved as if they had loved a thousand times before and she wondered then if she had unwittingly uttered a truth.

What if Erik was her destined lover, albeit a mortal one? She wondered whether he thought much the same, for his eyes darkened to an unruly indigo. It was not the first time she had sensed that their thoughts were as one, which surely was a mark of those fated to be together.

The prospect fairly made her dizzy. What if she had been granted the chance to have her every desire fulfilled?

Erik cleared his throat and frowned, tearing his gaze from hers. His hand flexed upon the rope, as if he was keenly aware suddenly of its burden and its import. “So you slept in that chamber, seeking the same fate as this Thomas of Erceldoune or the maiden of Alexander’s tale?”

“And you came through the window, and you seduced me sweetly,” Vivienne said, for she knew she was no fool even if she had behaved impulsively. “Thus I believed that the same tale came true for me as for the lost maiden.”

Erik studied her with narrowed eyes. “The mortal truth of me must be a disappointment indeed for one who expected a fairy prince.”

“Your scheme for my future certainly is.” Vivienne saw uncertainty in his expression and dared to believe that he had been driven to do what was not in his nature. She took a chance, and met him toe to toe, then tapped a finger upon his chest. “What would your father think of this deed you insist upon? Would he be gladdened to know that you were prepared to truss a woman to get a child upon her?”

Erik’s eyes flashed. “My father and his opinions are of no import in this!”

Vivienne persisted despite his manner, for she suspected that he would not injure her. She needed to know which side of him was the truth of his nature. “Would your father be glad to know that you chose a woman simply because she had denied your brother?”

“Likely so! If there is but one person in Christendom who is not seduced by my brother’s charm, it is only good sense to ally with that person in wresting back what he has stolen from me.”

Vivienne regarded him in surprise. “You did not say as much before.”

Erik shoved a hand through his hair and turned away with a frown. “Why I make any decision is not of import to you.”

“Is it not, though it shapes my own fate?”

He granted her a piercing glance. “But one thing shapes your fate, and that is your ability to conceive my son.” He hefted the rope. “How the deed is achieved is your choice.”

“What a fine sentiment that is!” Vivienne retorted, stung again that he saw only one advantage in her presence and doubting more with every moment that he would use the rope. “Your father is dead, you have only just heard the tidings and you do not mourn him. Indeed, you think only of your pleasure.”

Anger prompted Vivienne to say more than she should have done, but she doubted that Erik would hurt her and she felt she had little left to lose. “My father has been dead almost a year, and I mourn him every moment of every day. The day the tidings came, I wept like a babe all the day and through the night. What merit is there in bearing the son of a man who does not mourn the loss of his own sire? Perhaps it is better for all if the treacherous Sinclair clan is no more!”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared at him, telling herself not to be shaken by the bleak light that had claimed his eyes. “Do what you will to me,” she challenged. “You speak aright. I am your captive. I am no more than your chattel. I have been bought and sold, and I have no choice what my fate might be.”

Vivienne jabbed her finger at her own chest. “But I can believe whatsoever I will, and I choose to believe that each soul has a fate, that every soul has a destined lover, that injustice will be righted. And I know that a man who does not mourn the death of his father is of no merit whatsoever in any realm. You will scarce persuade me otherwise. Get your son upon me and you can nurse that viper at your own breast.”

Vivienne marched away from her astonished captor, not truly believing that she would get far. It was long before his footsteps echoed behind her, though, even longer before his hand closed over her elbow. His grasp was gentle and she closed her eyes against her own weakness, knowing that if he chose to try to seduce her with his touch, he would succeed.

“You speak fairly,” he said, his voice gruff. “Though no person can know what another suffers without seeing into that other’s heart.”

Vivienne knew she should not turn, knew she should not meet his gaze, but did as much anyway. He was silhouetted against the evening sky, so still and intent of manner that her unruly heart skipped.

The sky was smeared with orange and pink, a few dark clouds marring the splendid color. The stars had emerged above them, though the sun still burned red on the horizon. In the light of the dying sun, Erik’s hair looked more ruddy that she knew it to be and his scar was illuminated harshly.

But there was pain in his eyes, pain that she knew was not feigned. “Why a son?” she whispered.

He looked across the water, his expression somber. His words were soft when he spoke, an ache lurking beneath each of them. “Because my daughters are lost unless I can produce a son, mine beyond dispute, to reclaim Blackleith.” He looked down at her. “And he must be older than any son my brother begets. These are the conditions of the Earl of Sutherland, that there is a line of succession assured afore he aids me to reclaim Blackleith.”

“Daughters?” Vivienne whispered, feeling her anger fade as surely as the sun’s light.

“Two,” he admitted, bowing his head with a grief that made Vivienne yearn to console him. “I have not seen them in a year, I cannot know their fate. I dare not believe that Nicholas will treat my daughters more kindly than he did my wife.”

“He killed her?”

He shook his head and turned away, overwhelmed by the tidings he shared. Indeed, a lone tear made its course down his tanned cheek and though he did not wipe it away, his expression turned fierce.

That single tear did more to challenge Vivienne’s conclusions than a torrent could. Indeed, she was reminded of a rock finally cracking beneath some pressure, of a fissure appearing where none had been before.

This was why Erik had sought her and her womb, because his dead wife could not produce the son that would see his daughters saved. And because those two lives hung in the balance, he dared not wed her, lest she could not conceive a son, lest he had to find another maiden to provide the son he so desperately needed.

Vivienne could not deny that his choice could not have been one readily made. She saw how it troubled him to confess to what he had done, and knew it was not in his nature to deceive. She could not fight against the appeal of a man who did what was against his very nature for the sake of his children.

“You should have told me sooner.”

His blue gaze fixed upon her. “Would you have taken my wager then? Would your brother have agreed to my terms? I think not. The sole way to pursue my goal was with deception.”

“You have risked my alliance in so doing.”

He shook his head. “There is far more at stake than that. Understand that I will not fail them, independent of the cost. I may have only one chance, but I will pursue it until my dying breath. Be it you or another, a maiden will bear my son. My daughters’ lives rely on no less. I chose you, but if you spurn me I will merely choose another.”

He stared down at her, his eyes a vivid blue, and his words softened. “I would prefer that you not do so, though I recognize that is the risk of confessing the truth to you.”

He would not have felt compelled to be honest, unless he felt some regard for her, and Vivienne knew it well.

On impulse, she reached up and caught Erik’s face in her hands. She stretched and touched her lips fleetingly to his, wanting only to console him. She tasted his astonishment, then drew back slightly. she found herself wanting to aid him, wanting to aid those two little girls, though she knew she should not have done so without the benefit of a nuptial vow between them.

“What are their names?”

“Mairi,” he said gruffly. “And Astrid. Mairi is dark and has seen six summers, while fair Astrid has seen only three.” He measured their heights with one hand as he spoke, the harshness of his features seeming to melt when he spoke of them.

It was his undisguised affection that made Vivienne’s choice for her. After all, she was a maiden no longer, so that damage was done. But good could come of Vivienne’s loss, if she did not turn away from Erik now, if she still tried to conceive that son.

Impulse guided her tongue and even as she spoke, she wondered whether she erred, though truly it seemed that she had no choice.

“I do not know whether I can do what you desire of me,” Vivienne whispered, her heart pounding at her own audacity. “I cannot scry the future. But if you treat me with honor, then for the sake of your daughters, I will try to give you that son.”

Erik turned and cast the rope away. He met Vivienne’s gaze, determination in his eyes along with something else that made her heart leap. “Then we have a wager in truth, lady mine,” he said and claimed her lips with a possessive kiss.

And the joy in that kiss told Vivienne much of his measure. She tasted his relief and his fear, she tasted his sorrow and his desperate hope. She met the demand in his caress unflinchingly, knowing that she would offer her all to aid him now. She did not know if she had chosen rightly, she did not know if all would be resolved well, but she could regret nothing when he kissed her with such leisurely passion. She felt part of a great tale, of the righting of an enormous wrong, and surely that would be reward enough.

* * *

It had been so long since any soul had made a concession to Erik that Vivienne’s offer astounded him. He did not have the luxury of marveling in it, however, for he dared not grant her time to change her thinking. He had no intent of letting her rescind her offer, no intent of giving her cause for regret.

This mating must be as wondrous as the last had been.

He caught her close against him, savoring anew how willingly she met him, how readily she trusted him. The trust of another was a forgotten elixir for Erik and he was nigh intoxicated that Vivienne gave of it so generously.

Her kiss was both sweet and wild, unlike any he had tasted before, and it awakened an unexpected yearning within him. He wished that he would be the last man to savor her many charms, he wished that the way they met had been wrought of destiny, not his scheming. He wished that this venture might prove a success for both of them.

For this night, he put his worries aside. For this night, he chose to lose himself in both Vivienne and the enchanting tale she told.

He kissed her deeply, delighted that she was so unafraid. Her hand slid into his hair and she impatiently urged him closer. She arched her back and stretched to her toes, offering more of the feast of her kiss than he had had before. He shed his gloves with a measure of his own impatience, knowing that half measures would not serve either of them this night. He wanted her nude, he wanted to see her fully in the sun’s last light, he wanted to witness her pleasure.

His hands fell on the laces at the sides of her kirtle and he loosed them without breaking their kiss. Vivienne gasped, perhaps at the chill of the wind through her chemise, but he slipped his hands through the sides of her kirtle, letting his hands warm her. She was so slender that his hands almost closed around her waist.

Even with the barrier of cloth between them, he felt her pulse beneath his palms and its quick pace reminded him of how new she was to lovemaking. Not wanting to frighten her, he let his hands ease over her ribs to finally capture her breasts. When he touched her pert nipples, Vivienne broke their kiss with a cry.

Erik held her fast before him, one hand clasped in the small of her back, and stared into her eyes as he caressed her nipple again. She swallowed and her eyes widened to emerald pools, but she did not step away. He watched as his thumb eased over her nipple, felt it grow more taut, noted how she inhaled when the roughened edge of his thumb moved across the tender flesh.

She smiled and he was spellbound. “I like that,” she whispered and he could not help but smile himself.

“So I have noted.”

She flushed at his comment, but did not remove his hand. He repeated the caress, savoring how her eyes darkened. “Sorcery,” she whispered.

Erik shook his head. “It is a force far more reliable than any witchery,” he said and she laughed. It was such a merry sound that he felt the weight of his burdens lighten.

He chose to forget his responsibilities for these few moments. He let one hand curve around the ripeness of her breast, and lifted the other to the clasp of her cloak. He unfastened it, letting the cloak fall to a pile around her ankles. She was garbed in a richness unfamiliar to him, the garments sliding over his hands in a silken caress.

He lifted her kirtle over her head and cast it aside with care, his hands returning to her breasts. Her chemise was so sheer a linen that he could see the darkness of her areolas through the cloth, and it was so finely woven that her nipples made peaks in the cloth.

He pulled her close and kissed her again, untying the lace that held the neck of her chemise closed while he did so. Even as he deepened his kiss, he let his hand slide over her flesh, pushing the cloth away from her neck. He lifted his head, discovered that both of them were breathless and was tempted again to smile.

He realized that he had not been so tempted for years, though it was not the first time he had felt his lips curving in Vivienne’s presence. She was a balm to his unhappiness, a sunbeam that shone into the darkest corners.

He looked down at the treasure in his arms and devoured the sight that darkness had denied to him the night before. She was indeed a beauty, more beauteous than he had begun to guess. Vivienne’s skin was softer than soft, its hue like that of a white rose’s petals. The charming freckles upon her nose were echoed by an artful scattering of lighter freckles across her collar bone. Her breasts were ripe enough to fill his palm, soft enough to tempt his touch. He lifted her breast in his palm then bent and kissed the nipple with no small reverence.

The scent of her skin turned his salute to a more burning desire. He found his lips closing around her with urgency, his tongue flicking the nipple, his teeth grazing the peak that his thumb had recently teased.

Vivienne gasped, then seized a fistful of his hair and rose to her toes. She kissed his ear, his throat, his shoulder with a fervor he could well understand. Her passion fueled his own with astonishing ease. He pushed her chemise away, cursing the dozens of buttons that held the sleeves tight. She laughed and they loosed her from the garment’s clutch with impatience. He then caught her buttocks in his hand and lifted her against himself, letting her feel the effect that she had upon him. He burned for her, as never he had for another woman.

Vivienne rolled her hips against him in silent demand. He could have claimed her then, but feared to rush her overmuch. He caught her up in his arms, instead, intending to seduce her more slowly within the ruins on the point.

Vivienne, though, shook her head with unexpected vehemence when she saw his direction. “Not there,” she said, wrinkling her nose in a most fetching manner. “Here, in the last of the sunlight, is better.” Her hand slid down the side of his face, her fingertip sliding across his lips. “I want to see you fully this night. I want no shadows between us.”

He was startled that their desires were so similar. Recent years had taught him caution, that matters which seemed too good to be believed were oft untrustworthy. He wondered fleetingly whether he was a fool to believe her unexpected pledge, whether she deceived him deliberately for some mysterious reason of her own.

Then Vivienne kissed him, her tongue dancing so boldly with his own that he could refuse her nothing, especially a deed he wanted so ardently himself. And thus, Erik, once again, surrendered to Vivienne’s enchantment.

Chapter Six

In moments, Erik had created a nest for them out of their two cloaks, the fur-lined one on top, the lady gleaming like ivory as she sat atop it.

He knelt, intending to loose her garters, but Vivienne kicked her feet playfully. “You are yet fully garbed. I would see as much of you as you have seen of me before we continue.”

Erik paused, not wanting to dampen her ardor with the truth of his scars. “There is no need...”

“There is every need,” she argued, rising gracefully to her knees. “And since you are shy, I will aid you.” Her hands caught at the buckle of his belt, her gaze steadily meeting his own. Erik caught her hands in his to halt her, then noted the determined set of her lips. Vivienne lifted her chin, her gaze bright with challenge. He saw that she knew he was not shy, that she knew what he feared to show her.

He saw that she was not afraid to see whatever he bared.

Indeed, she had not flinched at the scar on his face. He lifted his hands away and let her continue what she had begun.

She smiled, well pleased with her triumph, and unbuckled his belt. His weapons were laid aside with the care they should have been shown, then she returned to unlace his boiled leather jerkin. She moved with an efficient haste and he merely watched her, wanting to witness every nuance of her response in the moment he dreaded. His tabard was laid aside, his boots joined it. His chemise fluttered in the wind and her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the lace at the neck.

She held his gaze as she worked the lace loose of every hole, as she finally pulled it free, as her elegant hands closed upon the hem of the garment and pulled it over his head. He shook free of it with impatience and watched her look.

The left side of his body was more marred as his face, the evidence of the assault against him written in his own flesh. He knew it was not easy to look upon, he knew that it was yet a livid red in places.

Erik should not have expected Vivienne to hesitate, for she did not. She lifted one hand, even as her gaze ran busily over him, and lifted her fingertips to the worst knot of marred flesh. “Nicholas did this?” she asked in a whisper.

“He dispatched those who did.”

She surveyed the scars, tracing the worst of them with a gentle fingertip. “He meant to see you dead,” she said and it was no query. Erik did not reply, and she granted him a glance as bright as that of a bird. “Does it still hurt?”

He shook his head, his throat tight at the sight of her. He saw the glitter of tears on her lashes, watched them fall like jewels as she shook her head at what he had borne.

“You should let the sun kiss it,” she said softly. “For its caress heals much.” He swallowed, then watched incredulous as she bent and touched her lips to his scar.

Erik was humbled by her gesture. He had given her so little, he had offered her less, and yet Vivienne granted him another priceless gift.

Any doubts he had of her were folly, to be certain.

Before Erik could speak, Vivienne ran her hands across him with a proprietary ease. She seemed to sense that he was overwhelmed for she spoke pertly. “My brothers are not wrought so broad as you,” she said. “Nor have my younger brothers so much hair upon their chests.”

He found his lips coaxed again into forming that unfamiliar curve of a smile. “Am I to be encouraged by this?”

She laughed. “I should think so, for I find you far more alluring than my siblings. Is that not better?”

“It is to my thinking.”

“And it can be no small thing to so readily agree,” she said, even as her fingertips slid to his nipple and teased it to a peak as he had done to hers. Erik inhaled sharply, but Vivienne did not cease her caress.

“Surely I can torment you with pleasure in my turn?” she whispered. There was pure mischief in her eyes as she kissed his nipple, flicking her tongue against the sensitive peak as he had done to her just moments before.

He whispered her name and caught her close. He pulled her face to his and kissed her soundly, feeling the curve of her smile beneath his mouth. She was as merry as a beam of sunlight herself, as undaunted by whatsoever confronted her that one could not help but be gladdened in her presence.

Erik chose to gladden the lady with his. He laid her upon their piled cloaks, and caught her feet in his hands so that she could not squirm away. He bent then and untied her garters with his teeth, kissing the inside of her knees as he did so.

“It tickles!” she complained, even as she laughed and writhed. He granted her no mercy and gave no pause, but relieved her of stockings, garters and shoes with deliberate slowness. He flicked his tongue into the hollow behind her knees and kissed her shins. He eased her stockings down first one leg, then the other, with the tip of his nose, pausing time and again to nibble and kiss and tease.

Vivienne twisted on the fur cloak so vigorously that her hair was fully loosed from her braids. She begged for mercy but he granted her none, she laughed until she was breathless, but the merry sparkle of her eyes urged him on. He grazed the soft flesh around her ankle with his teeth, he kissed her arch, he slid his tongue between her toes. He paused only when her stockings were shed, and then only to savor how flushed and disheveled she had become.

Then he traced kisses up the inside of her legs, burning a path to her sweet heat. When his mouth closed over her, she arched and moaned, then spread her thighs in welcome. He felt her arousal and it heightened his own. He savored how she responded to his caress and felt his own desire redouble. He held her fast and coaxed her to greater heights, halting just before she found her pleasure and beginning anew. She moaned, she writhed, she knotted her hands in his hair.

“Together,” she cried, and he could resist her no longer. He cast aside his chausses and held his weight over her, was captured utterly by her avid embrace. She held his shoulders while he entered her heat, then caught him close and cosseted him within herself. He moved within her and felt there was no other place or time that mattered.

Vivienne opened her eyes and smiled at him, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, her breath coming quickly. She clutched his shoulders and wrapped her legs around him, she matched her movement to his own and he saw his own marvel echoed in her wondrous eyes.

They shared the moment, as never he had shared it with a woman before. Beatrice had always looked away, even before his face had been marred, as if only enduring her marital obligation to him. But Vivienne delighted in their coupling, she was possessed of as great a desire as he, she was unashamed of her passion. He liked her honest embrace of pleasure quite well and he found that her joy abed only heightened his own.

He could trust her passion, for it was not feigned.

Erik could not have expressed his admiration, not as he moved within her and she cast a spell around them more potent than any potion. There was nothing in all his world save Vivienne. They watched each other, each daring the other to endure longer. Erik thought his very flesh might burst into flames, so ardently did they pursue the highest peak. He noted how her flush rose, how her hips bucked, how the tight bead of her tightened against him, but he waited until she cried out in ecstasy.

Only then did he let passion snare him fully, only then did he roar with his own release.

Only when he laid his brow upon Vivienne’s shoulder moments later, awed by the magic they had wrought together, did he mourn this situation. Erik wished he could have known what a man and a woman could share, and that he had known it before taking his wife. Erik regretted that he and Beatrice had never found such pleasure together.

Further, Erik wished that he could have met Vivienne unfettered himself, wished that he could have courted her before his life had become what it was.

He wished he had met Vivienne when he had been as young of heart and as merry as she. He wished she could have seen the best of him, not the worst. Beatrice had claimed that prize, though he knew she had never been glad of it as Vivienne welcomed what meager offering he could make to her now.

There were so many matters that could not be undone. Erik had married to suit his father’s ambitions, not his own. He had surrendered the best of himself to a woman who cared nothing for him and only now, when it might be too late to mend matters, did he see the fullness of the price he had paid.

Exhausted to his very marrow, content in Vivienne’s embrace, Erik let a single word of regret pass his lips, a word that would cost him dearly.

“Beatrice,” he murmured, then sighed at the empty promise of his nuptial vows.

He fell asleep then, but he was not destined to slumber for long.

* * *

Beatrice!

Vivienne’s eyes snapped open and she stared at the man slumbering half atop her. Beatrice! How could Erik have mistaken her for any other woman, after they had conjured such pleasure together?

Had he been thinking of Beatrice while they made love?

Had he imagined that she was Beatrice?

The very prospect was revolting beyond belief. How dare he?

Erik slumbered now, his brow upon her shoulder, a man untroubled by his deeds. His hair fanned over his shoulders, the hair upon his chest tickled against Vivienne’s breasts. She could feel the weight of his legs atop her own, and the tickle of the hair upon them, as well. Though he still braced most of his weight upon his forearms, Vivienne was trapped beneath him.

That was precisely where she did not wish to be.

In normal circumstance, she might have wished to leave him slumber, but Vivienne was not inclined to consider Erik’s wishes in this moment. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and pushed, to no discernible effect.

He did not so much as stir.

Vivienne pushed harder and Erik sighed, then rolled to his side with a murmured apology. His leg was still cast across hers, his heat fast by her side. His hand twined in her hair and there was a rare contentment in his expression.

Vivienne refused to be beguiled. He probably dreamed of his beloved dead wife! She snatched her hair from his fingertips and shoved aside his leg. He blinked that she moved so abruptly and stirred finally, his manner that of a man waking from a dream.

“Cur!” Vivienne cried as she leapt to her feet. “Knave, blackguard and wretch!” Erik blinked at her, apparently confused. “You know well enough what you have done,” she said, shaking her finger at him. “Do not pretend otherwise. I will not be swayed by your guile.”

She found her chemise and hastily drew it over herself, seeing already a gleam of desire in Erik’s eyes. She left the buttons upon the sleeves unfastened, and the sleeves hung comically long as a result. “Dream all the night long of your wife, if you so desire,” she bade him. “For you will never lay a hand upon me again.”

She turned her back upon his surprise and gathered her scattered clothing. The night sky was indigo now, the stars gleaming in the firmament, and the wind had turned chill. Vivienne’s hands shook so in her anger that she had trouble fastening the garters on her stockings. The cursed sleeves of the chemise were in her way, and she wished heartily that one of her sisters had stolen it. It helped little that she felt Erik watching her clumsy attempts to dress, helped even less that he seemed confused by her manner.

He could at least have protested his innocence, she fumed in silence. Though she would have known it to be a lie, it would have soothed her that he cared for her annoyance.

“Were you not pleased?” he asked finally and Vivienne cast a shoe at him in vexation.

“How well pleased were you to invoke your wife?” she demanded. “Beatrice!” she mimicked, then spun in a sweep of skirts. “How sweet to know that I am indistinguishable from your wife abed.”

Erik got to his feet with a haste uncommon to him. “I did not do as much.”

Vivienne propped her hands upon her hips. “You most certainly did. Do not be so fool as to accuse me of being deaf! I know what I heard, and I heard your wife’s name slip from your lips.”

Erik shoved a hand through his hair and frowned, then donned his own garb with efficient gestures. It appeared he would say no more, the very prospect of that making Vivienne’s blood boil. She glared at him, infuriated beyond belief and unwilling to leave the matter be.

Erik seemed to take uncommon care in fastening his belt and ensuring his weapons were as he desired.

“This is a fine reward you grant to one pledged to aiding your quest,” Vivienne said when she could keep silent no longer.

He spared her a glance. “You look as alluring as the Valkyrie must do,” he said. “Indeed, it is some prize you surrender to me with such a sight alone.” An unexpected twinkle lit his eyes, and though Vivienne blinked, it lingered there. “It might be worth vexing you again in future.”

“What is that to mean?”

“That you look like a warrior maiden who will not be denied her due.” He inclined his head slightly and shook his head. “Though their price is not small.”

Vivienne did not know whether to be insulted or flattered. She regarded Erik warily, feeling the lure of a tale she did not know. “I know nothing of these Valkyries,” she said, as coldly as she could manage.

“They are the servants of Odin, the great god, and sent by him to lead fallen warriors to their eternal reward at Valhalla.” Erik studied Vivienne for a moment. “They gather men’s souls, though be warned that I am not keen to surrender mine as yet.”

Vivienne shook her head. “I have no desire for your soul.”

“Do you not? I thought it the desire of all women to claim men’s souls, and you do not appear to be a woman prepared to accept half her due.” He cast his cloak over his shoulder with that graceful gesture she so admired, and Vivienne did not know whether he meant to challenge her or flatter her. “Surely you at least desire to infect a man’s thinking, persuading him to acknowledge unseen forces, for example, when he knows there to be none.” He offered his hand to Vivienne, though she did not yet take it.

“And what manner of force was Beatrice?”

“One you need know little about.” Erik glanced to the sky, to his horse, which now stood expectant, then back at Vivienne. “It is time we ride.”

Vivienne folded her arms across her chest and did not step toward his outstretched hand. “Why did you say her name?”

Erik looked away. “It is not of import.”

“I say it is.”

“You shall have no answer from me.”

“Then I shall not travel with you.”

“We have made a wager,” he said, his tone somewhat sharper. “You have no choice.”

He had the wits this time to not call her chattel, though Vivienne guessed he thought it.

“There is always a choice,” she asserted. “Though some choices are harder than others, and there are always wagers broken. I could prove as much to you, as well as the existence of the unseen realm of fairies, if I chose to recount to you the tale of Thomas of Erceldoune.”

“And do you so choose?”

Vivienne glared at him, thinking the query deserved no answer.

Erik shoved a hand through his hair and frowned at the coast, then impaled her with a bright glance. “Mine was an unwilling utterance.”

“How do I know as much?”

“Because I swear it to you.” He held her gaze then, his own bright with surety, and Vivienne found her determination faltering. “And I apologize for it, though it was unwittingly done.”

“It must not happen again.”

“Be assured that it will not.” He lowered his voice to the intimacy of a whisper, he looked at her as if she alone existed in all the world for him. His eyes gleamed with intent and something else, something that made Vivienne’s traitorous heart leap.

“Ride with me, Vivienne,” Erik urged, her name a caress upon his tongue. “Ride with me, bear my son in due time, and meanwhile tell me of this Thomas of Erceldoune.”

The chance to recount a favored tale was an invitation Vivienne could not refuse, or so she told herself.

The truth was that Erik Sinclair, with a plea in his eyes, was hard to resist.

Before she considered her choice, she put her hand within Erik’s. Her heart skipped at the warmth of his flesh, at the way his fingers closed possessively around her own. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, as eloquent an apology as she could desire, and she knew herself powerless against his allure.

It was dangerous to let him convince her of his innocence, it was dangerous to ride pressed against his strength, it was treacherous indeed to have pledged to bear his son. But she had made that vow and she would keep it.

A thousand tales had taught her that, no matter the consequences of a promise, breaking one’s word led to far worse consequences. Those tales had taught her a number of other lessons as well and she dared to hope that Erik might be persuaded in his turn of some of the beliefs she held so dear.

* * *

Erik was still shaken by the near price of his error. When she had turned upon him with flashing eyes, he had been certain that Vivienne would spurn him, thought that she would turn her back upon him forevermore. The prospect had struck fear to his very marrow.

He had been prepared to say nigh anything, to make any pledge, to ensure that she rode forward with him. He dared not consider why he was so determined that this woman should think well of him, though he reminded himself sternly to allow himself no tender feelings for her as yet. Fondness for Vivienne would only make any choice he might be compelled to make all the more difficult.

Instead of concern at his own fear of losing her, Erik felt a certain satisfaction at having persuaded Vivienne to continue their journey. He savored the sweet curve of her in his lap and a sense of triumph as well. He reasoned that it had only been the possibility that she had already conceived his son that had prompted his ready words.

There could be no other sensible reason for his desire to reassure her.

Vivienne spared him a glance over her shoulder, her eyes already sparkling with the prospect of sharing her tale, and he marveled anew at how readily she could lighten his mood. Though formidable challenges lay ahead of him, he had not felt such a sense of promise in years.

He had never yet felt that his quest had any chance of success, simply that it was a duty he could not evade. He thought now of Mairi and Astrid, of seeing them again, of hearing their laughter once more, and his heart swelled at the prospect.

“It is said that this tale is true, that there was a Thomas of Erceldoune but a hundred years ago,” Vivienne said. “He was reputed to have been laird of the holding of Erceldoune, which was then near the meeting of the Leader and the Tweed rivers. Melrose Abbey is in that vicinity, as well.”

“I have heard tell of that abbey,” Erik acknowledged. Vivienne fastened the buttons of her sleeves with care, her head bowed. He wished that he could see her features and watch the curve of her lips as she recounted the tale. Erik sated himself—for the moment—by fitting his hand into the indent of her waist.

She took no apparent note of his gesture, as if his hand rightly belonged there, which suited him well indeed.

“He was also called Thomas the Rhymer, and True Thomas, for both the rhymes of his tales and the veracity of his prophecies. He saw the future while in the fairy realm, and told of it upon his return to the mortal world. After his second departure and with the passage of time, his prophecies were proven aright. In this, I think, is your proof that matters unseen are true.”

A shadow separated itself from the darkness ahead, sparing Erik the need to debate this assertion. He would not be so readily persuaded of whimsy as that, but neither did he wish to mar the camaraderie between himself and Vivienne.

Erik recognized the stocky silhouette of Ruari. “I did not ride so far as you bade,” that man said gruffly, the way he twisted the reins in his hands revealing that he was not entirely certain what response his disobedience would merit. He cleared his throat when Erik said nothing. “You see, I thought it would be better to turn west here, rather than ride past the high tower ahead. I thought to keep the horse fresh, but awaiting you here, rather than proceeding and having to ride back.”

Erik was not truly surprised to find Ruari so close at hand. He had known even while arguing with the older man that he would not be easily rid of his presence. His father had oft commented on Ruari’s steadfast reliability.

“Your counsel is good, Ruari, as so oft it is,” he said and watched the older man’s tension ease. “One can never be certain what eyes are open.”

“Especially at Ravensmuir,” Vivienne said.

“Aye, Ravensmuir,” Ruari muttered, casting a look over his shoulder to the keep. “It can be no good portent to invoke the name of that keep with such frequency, and less good it is to linger in its proximity. I have heard tell that the Laird of Ravensmuir can hear the fart of a mouse at the other end of Christendom, no less that he could command a peregrine to bring him that very mouse for his dinner, if he should so desire it, and that his will would be done.”

“Nonsense, surely,” Erik said, biting back a smile.

“Nonsense, indeed,” Vivienne agreed. “My uncle has sharp hearing, though not so sharp as that. And the birds beneath his command are ravens, not peregrines. It is at the abode of my other uncle, at Inverfyre, that one finds falcons beneath the laird’s command.”

Ruari paused in the act of mounting his steed to regard Vivienne with horror. “Inverfyre and Ravensmuir both! Surely you cannot be kin with them all!”

“Surely I am.”

“But they are said to be sorcerers with unholy powers, men who can summon the tide and invoke demons to serve their will!”

Vivienne laughed. “What folly!”

Ruari then eased his steed closer. “Erik, lad, upon the grave of your sire, I feel compelled to warn you that this path can only lead to woe...”

“All paths lead to woe for me in this moment, Ruari,” Erik said, his light tone belying his words. “I but attempt to choose the least dire fate.”

“And you make a poor task of it, lad, that much is certain.”

“I thank you for your counsel.” Erik’s words were so unwelcoming that Ruari heaved a sigh. “Are you prepared to ride onward? We shall take the road west upon your advice.”

Ruari was clearly not content even to have had his suggestion accepted. The horses matched pace, settling into a steady gallop, but the older man shook his head ruefully. “Stories I have heard of Ravensmuir that are fit to curdle a man’s blood and freeze his very marrow. Aye, I have heard tell of the ravens loosed from Ravensmuir’s tower, no less that they are sent forth as spies for the laird or to pluck out the eyes of his enemies.”

“What folly!” Vivienne said, laughter brimming in her voice. “No raven has ever plucked the eyes from a foe, to my knowledge.”

“And even greater witchery,” Ruari declared with a raised finger. “I have heard that the laird talks to such birds!”

Vivienne chuckled. “How else would he gather tidings from afar?”

“With messengers and envoys, perhaps, as most men of property do,” Erik suggested and Vivienne granted him a bright smile.

Her next words chilled his heart though. “It is true that knowledge of the ravens’ language is passed from father to son,” she said, clearly at ease with this uncommon detail. “And that secrets are exchanged between laird and bird.” She looked back at Erik, eyes twinkling. “But surely a man who grants no credit to matters unseen would simply believe this to be a fable, and thus not worrisome in the least.”

A glance to the high shadowed tower looming behind them revealed tiny specks against the night sky. They might well be ravens, circling the tower, and their very presence was unsettling.

“Surely so,” Erik said with a resolve he did not quite feel.

Vivienne’s gaze glinted with merry mischief. “I think you believe more of this tale than you admit you do, and I shall prove it to you.”

Erik scoffed. “You cannot do as much.”

Vivienne arched a russet brow, then turned her back upon him once more. To his astonishment, she emitted a piercing cry and raised her fist skyward.

“What in the name of God is that?” Ruari demanded, crossing himself with vigor. “You could stop a man’s heart with such a scream, lass, upon that you can rely! Do you think we have need of waking every soul hereabouts to our passage?”

Vivienne ignored him, so avidly did she watch the sky. Erik was certain that she merely teased him, but then there came a flutter of wings. An answering cry rang from the heavens above, one so loud that it nigh rent their ears. Erik’s horse shied and he turned his attention then to soothing the beast. He stroked Fafnir’s side and spoke firmly to the stallion, holding the reins tightly while he calmed the horse.

A shadow darker than the night sky descended with awesome grace and Vivienne cried again, nigh ensuring that the horse bolted in truth. Erik swore softly and held the reins fast, but she was oblivious to their danger. Her face was alight with joy as she furled her cloak over her arm and, against all expectation, stretched it out in fearless invitation.

“Mother of God!” Ruari cried.

The raven landed so heavily that Vivienne’s arm dipped low beneath the burden of its weight. Fafnir whinnied in terror at the unfamiliar rustle of feathers so close behind his head, folded his ears back and began to run. Erik locked his arm around Vivienne’s waist and bent his attention upon soothing the horse.

The horse was disinclined to heed him.

Half an eternity and several fields later, Fafnir settled more or less to his previous gait. The steed still tossed his head and trotted sideways for a few steps, discontent with the addition to their entourage. Erik knew that the skittishness in the destrier’s step meant that if the bird did not remain still, Fafnir would bolt again.

Vivienne released a shaking breath. “Surely your steed is trained?”

“Surely you are mad to have summoned this bird,” Erik snapped. “Can you not see that you have endangered all of us with this folly?”

She looked slightly guilty. “It was not my intent to do as much. Every horse I have ever ridden has been well accustomed to birds.”

“Because they were likely reared in Ravensmuir and Inverfyre, and raised to endure such an unholy alliance!” Ruari contributed, galloping from behind them.

Vivienne granted him a scornful glance. “Every nobleman in Christendom hunts with hawks, and does so from his horse’s saddle. There is nothing uncommon in this, much less any alliance unholy.”

“Then Fafnir’s experience has been limited by my own deeds,” Erik said. “For it is not the lot of outlaws to hunt with hawks and hounds.”

He glanced at the bird and was astounded at its size, for he had never seen a raven so close. Its plumage gleamed black, except for a tuft of white feathers over its left eye which gave it a querulous air.

He was even more unsettled by its manner, for what might have been intellect gleamed in its dark eyes. The raven tilted its head and regarded Erik with such an eerie stare that it seemed to know his very thoughts. Indeed, the creature did not so much as blink, its eyes shining as it regarded him steadily.

“Madness and folly!” Ruari cried, gesturing to the bird. “Men may hunt with hawks, but a peregrine is a far cry from a raven so willing to land on a woman’s fist. Have you taken a sorceress to your bed, lad? What price will she demand of us if she can summon a wild bird? Doubtless she can whistle up a wind, or strike a man dead with a glance. Woe will come of this choice, of that you can be certain!”

“Such tales of witches are nonsense, Ruari,” Erik said, forcing his voice to sound more calm than he felt.

Did he imagine that the bird smirked at him?

“Indeed, Erik is convinced that the only truth is what a man can hold within his own hands,” Vivienne said sweetly. “It surely must be coincidence and no more that brought Medusa to my fist when I summoned her.”

Perhaps Vivienne meant to provoke him in return for his uttering Beatrice’s name. Erik chose to not let her perceive the effectiveness of her ploy. “It is only good sense to be skeptical of such unseen and unproven abilities.”

“Good sense!” Ruari snorted his skepticism. “It is no more than folly! Indeed, lad, you leave half the forces of Christendom out of that accounting, and to your own disadvantage at that. What of the miracles wrought by saints and their relics? What of the marvel of the mass itself? Do common bread and wine turn themselves to the body and blood of Christ? Why, if there was no more in this world than what a man might see for himself, then there would be much left unexplained, to be sure.”

Erik was very aware that the raven looked between them, as if listening to their conversation.

As if it might recall and recount that conversation to another, perhaps the lady’s uncle at Ravensmuir.

But that was nonsense!

“You are overly certain, Ruari, of these forces for which you have no evidence,” Erik said.

Ruari flung out a hand. “No evidence? What of the eyes in your own head, lad? What of your own fate in these moments? Can you deny that wickedness—a force unseen, to be sure—is not responsible?”

“My brother is scarce a force unseen,” Erik said, with no small measure of humor. To avoid lingering upon the details of his situation, he indicated the bird and deliberately changed the subject. “This then would be a bird from Ravensmuir?”

“It is Medusa,” Vivienne said. The bird seemed to arch that white-feathered brow in silent acknowledgement. “And what will you tell my uncle of this, when next you fly through the high windows of Ravensmuir?” Vivienne asked of the bird. It cocked its head, seemingly considering her question. “And what will he ask of what you have seen this night?”

“Sorcery and madness!” Ruari fumed. “You allow wickedness to ride in your own saddle, lad, and it will be to your own detriment. Do not let her send a missive with the bird!”

“Ruari, it is but a bird. It cannot talk to any man.”

“Fool! It is more than that!” Ruari drew his steed closer. He tried to shoo the bird away to no avail.

Vivienne leaned down to whisper to the bird. “I confide in you, Medusa, that our likely destination is Blackleith.” The raven tilted its head, as if absorbing this morsel of information, then looked to Erik, appearing to seek confirmation.

Was he so transparent as this? Erik had said nothing of his intent, yet Vivienne had guessed it so readily that he felt exposed.

Then his blood chilled. Who else might have guessed his scheme? Did Nicholas still think him dead? Or had some soul confided the truth in him? Had his daughters met some dire fate in his absence, due to his own folly?

“You cannot know as much!” Ruari protested. “How can you scry the future so readily? I tell you, Erik, the maid is a witch in truth.”

“It merely makes good sense,” Vivienne replied tartly. “How else would a man regain the holding he had lost, save by returning to it? How else would a man win back his daughters, save by returning to the hall where they could be found?”

“You told her of your daughters?” Ruari demanded in obvious disbelief. “What madness has seized you, lad, that you confide your secrets every soul who sees fit to cross your path? Do you court failure? I thought you sought triumph! Your own insistence upon trusting others, to your detriment, will see you fail again!”

Erik swore then, swore with vigor as he swung his gloved fist toward the bird. Medusa cried outrage and took flight, the raven’s heavy wings beating the air with power.

Fafnir whinnied with no small outrage of his own. Erik had but a heartbeat’s warning before the horse shied and bolted hard to the right, away from the flutter of the bird’s wings.

And Erik and Vivienne were tossed to the left, right out of the saddle, so abruptly did the horse move. Erik shouted in annoyance as they were thrown, but the horse did not slow. He caught Vivienne in his arms and took the burden of the fall himself.

He landed upon his injured hip and grimaced in pain, even before Vivienne’s slight weight landed atop him.

Medusa circled their small party once, screaming in avian disgust as Fafnir’s racing hoof beats faded into the distance. Ruari shouted and gave chase to the horse, a feat that would only make a spooked Fafnir gallop further before he halted. There was little point in shouting after Ruari, though, for he likely would not hear Erik’s warning. And truly, the ruckus Ruari raised would have every monk and peasant rising from his bed.

Erik leaned his head back on the hard cold moor, closed his eyes, and sighed. His hip throbbed; he was exhausted. What had seemed a simple plan to ensure his daughters’ survival was not proving to be either simple or successful thus far.

Chapter Seven

“Are you injured?” Vivienne asked and Erik felt her leaning over him. Whether her solicitude was genuine or not, it was welcome. Indeed, the press of her breasts against his chest and the tickle of her hair on his face—no less his body’s response to both—persuaded him that he was not as near death as he might have thought.

He opened his eyes and regarded her, noting that she was disheveled and pale. He was immediately concerned. “Are you?”

She shook her head, loosing that cloud of hair over him. “Of course not, for you took the brunt of the fall.”

“But?”

“But I was surprised. I have ridden horses all my life and never have I been thrown from the saddle.” She grimaced as she sat up, then rubbed one knee. “It is not a new experience to be welcomed.”

Erik realized then how fully Vivienne had had a life of privilege and security. She had known no fear, she had faced no danger. She had been cosseted by a large affluent family, one which ensured that she rode no horse that was not utterly tame, one which saw that no peril touched her life.

He wanted fiercely to give the same gift to his daughters. That desire had him sitting up, reinvigorated once more.

“You did not answer me,” Vivienne said, glancing over him with a wince that might have been born of guilt or sympathy or both.

“I am no more injured than I have been before,” Erik said, hoping it was true. Vivienne eyed him anxiously as he stood and subtly tested whether his leg would support his weight. “It was a surprise, no more than that.”

“I did not know that your steed did not like birds.”

“Nor, actually, did I.”

“I am sorry,” Vivienne said, her cheeks staining with becoming color. “I have never known any horse unfamiliar with birds. I see now the folly of assuming all horses would be indifferent to their presence.”

Erik liked that Vivienne was unafraid to acknowledge her guilt, that she apologized for her error with such ease. Though she flushed with embarrassment, still she met his gaze steadily. Her sheltered upbringing had given her a confidence that would serve her well in any circumstance.

“How could you have anticipated what you have never known before?” he asked, unwilling to condemn her for a miscalculation, even one that had roused a clamor in his hip. “Your family’s abode is hardly typical of what mine was, even in its finest hour.”

She nodded, so contrite that he felt a cur for having been irked with her even momentarily. “I never even guessed,” she said quietly, then sighed. “And my mother used to tell me that I was keen of wit.”

There was little Erik could say to that. Vivienne rose then, and fetched the spilled contents of one saddlebag, which had evidently not been fully fastened. The provisions had been in that bag, though he did not tell her to leave the bread and the cheese in the dust. They might find themselves hungry enough to want it all the same.

He wondered whether Vivienne’s ability to accept radical changes in her situation would extend to eating food adorned with dirt. He hoped they did not have to find out.

Erik took advantage of her averted gaze to stretch his leg cautiously. He winced at the vigorous stab of pain which resulted.

“You are injured!” Vivienne said, glancing over her shoulder in precisely the wrong moment.

“No more than a bruise.”

She looked skeptical in her turn, propping one hand upon her hip as she surveyed him sternly. “Then it will be a large one, I would wager.”

“You will find no one to wager the opposite in this company,” he muttered.

“You should not have taken the brunt of our fall, not upon that hip.”

It had been quite some time since a woman had cared sufficiently about Erik to scold him, and he found himself enjoying their exchange. “In truth, I had no plan to do as much, just as I had no plan to leave the saddle in such a manner,” he said and was rewarded by Vivienne’s laughter. “That was no jest.” He granted her a grim look, and she merely smiled, so undaunted was she by his expression.

“There is no need to glower at me,” she said. “You cannot disguise from me that you have noble impulses, much less that gallantry had you ensuring I felt no injury as a result of my own folly. No woman of sense condemns a man for his chivalry, though she might remind such a man that a body can bear only so much.” With that, she returned to her task of gathering the scattered goods.

Erik blinked. It had been long indeed since anyone had thought him chivalrous, longer still since he had been credited with noble impulses. He watched Vivienne, discomfited that she had glimpsed secrets he thought hidden, and wary of her expectations all the same.

Mercifully, he heard a horse’s hoof beats approaching in that very moment and was spared the need to consider the matter further. He pivoted to find Fafnir trotting back toward him. The horse had run in a large circle and now returned from the opposite direction, albeit at a much slower pace. The destrier halted half a dozen steps away and regarded Erik with seeming puzzlement, then lowered his head as if in apology as he slowly came closer.

“He looks so surprised!” Vivienne said.

“As if he had naught to do with our not being in the saddle any longer,” Erik grumbled.

Fafnir sniffed Erik, seeming confused that he was no longer sprawled upon the ground. Apparently reassured to have found his errant rider, the destrier nibbled on Erik’s hair. Fafnir nosed in Erik’s collar with shameless enthusiasm, as if Erik were inclined to carry apples in his chemise.

Vivienne laughed. She buffed an apple retrieved from the ground, then came closer to offer it to the horse.

“He needs no reward for throwing us,” Erik said.

Vivienne was undeterred by his gruff manner. “He deserves one for returning to us.” She rubbed the beast’s nose while it devoured the fruit, then turned that sparkling gaze upon Erik again.

Before she could ask him some question, Erik spoke.

“It was but a bird,” he told the horse with affectionate disgust, then rubbed its nose in turn. He flexed his leg while he stood there, assessing the damage from the fall. His hip was stiff and sore, it would undoubtedly be black and blue, but he would survive. He bent his leg once or twice and was relieved as it became more agile.

“You must think me no more keen of wit than a child,” Vivienne said. She watched him, though he had not realized as much, her eyes narrowed.

“I think you a woman who has lived in privilege,” Erik said, not wanting to chastise her when she was clearly judging herself harshly. “I also think your mother named it rightly, and that you are a woman keen of wit, though that does not mean you can know all.”

“I am sorry. I never intended that you should be injured.”

“Nor did I.” Erik felt immediately contrite, for she looked so crestfallen. He reached out and touched her cheek with a fingertip, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “If I confess to believing that you can summon a raven, though it defies reason that such an ability should be so, will you pledge to not do so again?”

Vivienne smiled then, her smile as radiant as the first rays of the dawn. Indeed, the sight warmed Erik to his very toes. “Such a pledge should be sealed with a kiss, do you not think?” she said, then stepped around the horse and rose to kiss him on the mouth.

Her spontaneous embrace was a rare pleasure. Indeed, no man of sense could argue with her reasoning, so Erik returned her kiss.

* * *

Vivienne marveled that Erik’s kiss grew more beguiling with familiarity, not less so. She leaned her hands upon his chest and stretched to the tips of her toes, wanting only to kiss him fully.

And truly, a kiss seemed the most fitting apology for what she had so foolishly done. What had begun as the manner of jest she would have played on one of her siblings had gone awry beyond her expectations. In hindsight, Vivienne felt like a fool.

It had been easy to conclude from her experience that all horses were accustomed to birds, for example, whereas she now realized that all of the horses she had ridden had been trained with care beforehand. Only in hindsight did she see and appreciate the many hands that had ensured she and her siblings had met with no harm.

It was not thus for every woman, nor indeed for every man. Vivienne understood that it certainly had not been thus for Erik. As a result, he had a keener ability to anticipate peril, for he held fewer assumptions than she.

So, even though she had endangered them unwittingly, he had not only ensured that they did not pay a higher price, but he had forgiven her. Once his anger had passed, he had not held her error against her, and Vivienne wished to reward him for his trust.

She kissed him with ardor and felt his response against her belly. She smiled as he pulled her more resolutely against him, savored the passion of his embrace. She wondered whether they might seal this agreement with more than a mere kiss.

Then Ruari exhaled with obvious disgust from close proximity. Erik muttered a curse as he lifted his lips from hers and Vivienne hid her smile.

Ruari glared at them, hands propped upon his hips. “And here I am, riding the very breadth of Scotland in pursuit of a steed, a steed which has returned to you of its own volition, and the two of you are so consumed with each other alone that you could not trouble to summon me with tidings of that horse’s return?”

“I knew, Ruari, that you would not be far behind Fafnir, since you have such a talent for pursuit,” Erik said, still holding Vivienne fast against his chest. She leaned her brow upon him and hid her amusement in his cloak.

Ruari harrumphed. He did not dismount, merely peered pointedly at the sky, then back at the embracing pair. “Do you mean to ride further this night? Or shall I make myself absent again while you labor to create a male heir for Blackleith?”

It was clear from his tone that Ruari was yet disgruntled, though he did not grant Erik a chance to protest.

“I should have thought that you would have a desire for haste in this journey,” Ruari huffed and puffed. “Seeing as no man knows what occurs beneath Nicholas’ hand, but I may have misunderstood your enthusiasm for the pursuit of justice.”

“Your counsel is uncommonly wise, Ruari, and indeed I mean to ride north with all haste,” Erik said mildly.

Ruari pursed his lips and might have argued further, but Erik moved to depart immediately. He locked his hands around Vivienne’s waist and lifted her to Fafnir’s saddle.

She noticed that Erik put his good leg in the saddle to swing himself up behind her, no less that he still moved stiffly, and feared that he was more injured than he would have had her believe. He turned the horse, though, and urged the beast to his former speed, as if untroubled.

He appeared so untroubled that Vivienne understood otherwise. She already knew that Erik appeared more impassive when matters were less to his liking.

She was concerned that their riding would injure his hip further, but dared not suggest as much outright in Ruari’s presence. She could feel how Erik braced himself, how he periodically caught his breath in pain, and she nibbled her lip in consternation. Not only was she responsible for his injury, but she could do little to ensure that it did not become worse.

“And time enough it is too,” Ruari grumbled, his steed cantering beside Fafnir with easy grace. “The night is half gone and Ravensmuir yet on the horizon. We shall be fortunate indeed if we put enough distance between ourselves and the lady’s kin before that cursed bird rouses their suspicions.”

“You need not fear as much, Ruari,” Vivienne felt the need to admit. “I cannot truly speak to the ravens. I only meant to play a jest upon you both.”

Erik made a sound that might have been wrought of amusement, but Vivienne did not turn to see the expression on his face.

“A jest!” Ruari cried. “And what is amusing about striking terror into the innards of an old man? I thought you a fetching lass, but your heart, it seems, is shadowed.” Ruari shook a finger at Vivienne. “It is said that there is no wind colder than a fair maiden’s heart. Do you mean to prove the truth of it?”

“I erred!” Vivienne protested. “It was not my intent to harm either of you. You and I are in agreement about matters unseen: I meant only to challenge Erik’s convictions.”

“Ruari, there is no harm done,” Erik said firmly.

“No harm,” the older man snorted. “Do you think I have no eyes in my head? I saw how you mounted your steed. You may not wish the lady to think you wounded, but I discern the truth of it. You would be best away from this foul land, back in the north when friends and foes are not only known to us but devoid of any unholy powers...”

“Ruari, let us leave the matter be and ride,” Erik said.

“Ride, indeed we should ride. I counsel that we ride directly for Queensferry, since you hold my advice in such high regard, and that we should not halt until we stand upon a boat and its sails are unfurled and the tide is carrying us away from these lands. Let there be the width of the Firth of Forth between ourselves and Ravensmuir before we sleep is what I say. Let us find ourselves in more familiar—and less traveled—country before we rest our weary selves, the better that we do not have to awaken at every sound. Fife would suit me well enough. Aberdeenshire would be better.”

“It is too far to Queensferry,” Erik argued, his tone revealing that his patience was strained. “The horses will be pressed overmuch.”

“It is two days ride,” Vivienne said, wanting to add weight to Erik’s view. “Even if we rode without cease, we could not arrive before Monday morn.”

Ruari shook his head, unpersuaded. “The horses are fresh enough, if I may say as much, and they are doughty steeds well capable of a long run when the circumstance demands. If ever circumstance demanded, lad, it does on this night! There is a shiver in my very marrow, which is as reliable a portent of bad fortune as ever a man has known. I felt that shiver the night you were summoned to aid Thomas Gunn and I felt it again the night your father breathed his last. A man must listen to the warnings of his very bones.”

“But mine offer no such warning,” Erik said.

Ruari shook his head. “We will be ill-advised to remain on this side of the Firth longer than we have need of doing so, upon that you can rely, lad.”

“We will not ride during the day, Ruari,” Erik said. Vivienne felt him adjust his pose in the saddle. His hip would not be served well by more time in the saddle.

“There will be much activity upon the road to Edinburgh on the morrow for the market,” she said, not being certain of any such thing. “We will not make good speed within a crowd.”

“All the more reason to let the horses rest,” Erik concluded. “For neither of them are accustomed to a busy thoroughfare.”

“It is folly, lad!” Ruari flung out his hands. “How can I make the matter clear to you?”

“You cannot,” Erik said finally and much to the older man’s displeasure. He then leaned toward Vivienne, granting Ruari no chance to further complain. “Were you not going to recount a tale? Ruari is fond of tales, as I recall, and the telling will pass the time more quickly.”

“Of course.” Vivienne noted that Ruari settled into a disgruntled silence, knowing that his counsel would not be heeded and not satisfied with that in the least. Wanting only to leave dissent behind them, she cleared her throat and began to sing.

“True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,

When he espied a fairy lady;

This lady she was brisk and bold,

and she rode to the Eildon Tree.

Her skirt was of the grass-green silk;

her bridle of gold most fine;

and woven into her horse's mane,

were fifty silver bells and nine.”

“A tale of a fairy, is it then?” Ruari asked, his expression brightening in his interest. “I like a tale with beauteous women, to be sure.” He spared Vivienne a telling glance. “Doubtless she has a heart wrought of ice, though.”

“True Thomas he took off his hat,

and bowed him low down till his knee.

‘All hail, Mary, mighty Queen of Heaven!

Your peer on earth I ne'er did see.’

“‘Oh no, oh no, True Thomas,’ she said,

'That name does not belong to me.

I am the queen of the fairy realm,

Come to hunt with greyhounds three.’”

Thomas then spake bold to her,

Her fairness unfurled his words:

‘Lady, you have claimed my heart,

Come lie and hear the birds.’”

“A tale of a fairy bedded by a mortal man!” Ruari chortled. He winked at Vivienne. “You bear more than one surprise, lass, that is to be certain.”

Vivienne did not know what to say to that, so she sang.

“‘Thomas, you know not what you ask;

You care only your will.

For if I should lie abed with you,

My beauty will be spilled.’”

‘Lovely lady, rue on me,

Know I will serve you well.

Alight with me, lie with me,

I will ever with you dwell.’”

“Persistence is the key,” Ruari muttered. “Therein lies the way to success in any endeavor. This Thomas, he refuses to accept that she declines his suit and I predict that he will see reward for his stubborn regard.”

“Do not even think of arguing in this moment for riding directly to Queensferry,” Erik said. “That matter is resolved, and your persistence will only be irksome.”

“It is like casting pearls before swine,” Ruari declared to no one in particular. He beat a fist upon his chest. “I conjure counsel from the weight of my experience, I urge wise courses through the goodness of my heart, I do this purely to ensure that those upon whom I am dependent do not err in ignorance.”

Ruari gestured as if offering riches to the poor “And yet, and yet, my sage advice, culled from decades of experience among men foul and fair, is discarded -” he cast out his hands “- like the dung of chickens.” He sighed in forbearance, turning his gaze heavenward as if seeking strength to bear his earthly burdens. “Do not hold matters against me, my lord William,” he said, apparently appealing to the ghost of Erik’s father. “A mortal man can but try to make others see sense.”

“You could break your word to my father instead, and abandon me to my folly,” Erik suggested, earning a baleful glance from his companion for daring to tease him thus.

“Never!” Ruari declared.

“Then we shall make the ferry by Tuesday.”

Ruari visibly grit his teeth.

Vivienne sang.

“‘Thomas, Thomas, you speak folly,

A price be there for this ride.

Your lust leads us astray this day,

But I see you will not be denied.’

Down then came that lady bright,

underneath the Eildon Tree.

As the story tells full right,

Seven times with Thomas she did be.”

“Seven times!” Ruari chuckled at that, the tale clearly distracting him from his disappointment with Erik. “There is a lusty maiden, to be sure, though fairies are said to have unholy appetites. And Thomas!” He whistled through his teeth. “Seven times. Seven! There was a man of persistence and uncommon fortitude, to be sure.”

Vivienne found herself blushing. She had forgotten the earthy nature of these first verses, or perhaps she had not fully understood them when she had heard them last. She had learned much these past two nights, to be sure. Worse, she was curious whether she and Erik might be able to couple seven times in rapid succession. She felt an indication against her buttocks that his thoughts might be following a similar course and her heart skipped a beat in anticipation.

Then she recalled the next verse and did not know whether she could sing it in this company or not.

“Is there not more?” Erik asked. “It seems a short tale otherwise, with little evidence that Thomas truly visited the fairy realm, as you insisted it would prove.”

“I merely had to recall the words,” Vivienne lied, then raised her voice again. She tried to brace herself for Ruari’s response, for she expected he would laugh merrily at this verse.

“She said ‘Thomas, you like this play.

What lady could sate thee?

You would couple all this day,

I pray, Thomas, now let me be.’”

Ruari did indeed roar with laughter. Indeed, he laughed until the tears ran from his eyes, but Vivienne sang on, granting him no chance to make a bawdy comment.

“Thomas looked then with merry heart,

Upon that lady who was so gay;

But her hair hung dull about her face,

Her flesh had now turned to grey.

“Thomas cried out ‘Alas, alack!

This is a doleful sight!

Beauty has faded from your face,

That once shone as sun so bright.’

The lady stood, her manner dour,

‘Is this not as I foretold?

A price we both must pay for this

To your lust my beauty has been sold.’”

“And is that not oft the truth of it?” Ruari said then shook his head at the sad way of matters. “The fairest maid looks less fair after her conquest, upon that you can rely. Many a man has awakened after claiming a maiden whose merits left him blinded by lust, only to perceive her flaws the following morn.”

Vivienne fell silent, struck by the similarities between this tale and her own. She had thought Erik come from the realm of fairy and he had persuaded her to meet him abed. He had been curt the following morn. Had he been disappointed with the sight of her? Did he see flaws in her nature now, after her jest had gone so awry? Did her fears that she was not as composed as Madeline have any merit?

There was no denying the similarity between her agreement to accompany him for a year and a day and the wager that Thomas made with his fairy queen.

Feeling some disquietude, Vivienne sang.

“‘Now you must ride with me,’ she said;

True Thomas, you must come with me;

For you must serve me seven years,

through well or woe as chance to be.’

She mounted then her milk-white steed,

and took True Thomas up behind;

With every ring of her bridle,

Her horse ran faster than the wind.

It was a dark dark night, with no light;

they waded through red blood to the knee:

For all the blood that’s shed on earth;

Runs through the rivers of Fairy.

Then she led him to a fair arbor;

Where fruit grew in great plenty.

Pears and apples, ripe they were,

Dates, roses, figs and wineberry.

‘Dismount now, my Thomas True,

And lay your head upon my knee,

And you will see the fairest sight

That ever a man did see.’”

Ruari laughed. “Aye, there is a fine sight to be seen whenever a man rests his head upon a lady’s knee!”

Vivienne gasped, never having understood that interpretation of the tale. Erik’s hand curved around her waist as if in reassurance. “He is merry,” he whispered into her ear. “That is all I hoped of in the telling of your tale. Do not take his comments to heart. You must have noted already that he talks overmuch, and is happiest when talking.”

Vivienne turned to grant Erik a smile, and found encouragement in his steady gaze. He was smiling slightly himself, and the expression made him look less formidable.

“You should smile more often,” she bade him, then turned when he sobered in surprise. This was the part of the tale that she loved and she sang the fairy queen’s words with gusto.

“‘Oh do you see yon narrow road,

so thick beset with thorns and briars?

That is the path of righteousness,

though after it but few enquires.

And do you see that broad broad road,

that lies across the little leven?

That is the path of wickedness,

though some call it the road to heaven.’”

“She grants good counsel, does this fairy queen,” Ruari declared. “One has no fear of encountering a crowd on the road to righteousness, to be certain.”

“‘And do you see that bonnie road,

which winds about the ferny slope?

That is the road to the Fairy court,

where you and I this night will go.

But Thomas, you must hold your tongue,

whatever you may hear or see;

For if a word you should chance to speak,

Never will you return to your own country.’

‘Whatsoever men say to you,

I pray you answer none but me.

I shall tell that I took a toll,

And I wrest your speech from thee.’

Thomas looked in that place,

And saw his lady once more gay.

She was again so faire and good,

Rich adorned on her palfrey.”

“And how might this be?” Ruari demanded. “Was it the return to her own abode that restored her beauty?”

“I asked the same and was told that there is another variant of the tale,” Vivienne explained. “And in that tale, the queen was wedded and her husband has cast a spell upon her that any infidelity would cost her beauty.”

“Ah, so he could tell the truth of it with a glance.” Ruari nodded. “There would be a useful spell for a mortal man with a beauteous wife,” he said, without explaining himself further. He cast a glance at Erik, who said nothing.

Vivienne did not understand Ruari’s import. If he spoke of some past marriage of his own, it would be rude for her to demand details, so she sang.

“She blew her horn, took the reins,

And to the castle they did ride.

Into the hall rightly she went;

Thomas followed at her side.

Harp and fiddle there they found,

The gittern and the psaltery;

The lute and rebec there did sound,

And all manner of minstrelsy.”

“Puts me in mind of a wedding, that does,” Ruari said with a sigh. “Your wedding was a merry celebration, lad, to be certain. I fairly danced holes in my shoes, the minstrels were so fine.”

Again, Erik made no reply, though Vivienne was certain she felt him straighten behind her. And why not? Erik yet mourned his wife, it was clear to any soul who paid attention to his manner whenever she was mentioned. Doubtless, he recalled that merry event himself and the sadness of losing his beloved bride afterward.

Indeed, Vivienne thought that Ruari showed a lack of tact in making such ready reference to Erik’s wedding. After all, he had to know that Erik mourned his lost wife deeply. It was unkind to remind Erik of happier days, to her thinking, though Ruari clearly uttered any words that rose to his lips. There was no harm in him, but he was not an overly discreet soul.

She sang lest he choose to say more.

“One morn, his lady spake to him;

‘Thomas, here you may no longer be.

Hasten yourself with might and main,

I shall take you to the Eildon Tree.’

Thomas said with heavy cheer,

‘Lovely lady, let me take ease,

For scarce have I savored this place;

Merely seven nights and days.’

‘Forsooth, Thomas, I tell you true:

You have danced seven years and more!

You must here no longer dwell;

I shall take you home therefore.’

She brought him to the Eildon Tree,

Underneath the green wood spray;

But Thomas did not wish her to part:

‘Grant me some token, lady gay.’”

‘Harp or carp, Thomas, you choose...’”

“Harp or carp? What is this?” Ruari demanded.

“Surely you must know,” Erik said, his tone unexpectedly teasing. “You with such a fondness for tales.”

“Surely I do not! What choice does she grant him? A harp or a fish?”

Vivienne laughed. “He can choose the ability to play music or the ability to speak. He will excel at whichever he chooses.”

“Ah! A silver tongue or silver fingertips. Aye, it is true that fairies oft grant the gift of music, though never have I heard of them offering a gift for telling tales.” Ruari nodded. “Seems to me as those they choose to capture oft have that gift already and in plenty, if you understand my meaning.”

“Aye, I understand it well,” Erik said. “Perhaps you have such a belief in matters unseen because you too have been captured by the fairies.”

Ruari laughed at that prospect and Vivienne understood that neither man believed the veracity of her tale. She resolutely sang on, knowing that Thomas’ prophecies would change their conclusions.

“‘Harp or carp, Thomas, you choose,

You will have whiche’er you will to be.’

‘To carp choose I,’ said Thomas True.

‘For tongue is chief of minstrelsie.’

‘Then when you speak, from this day hence,

And tales you choose to tell,

You shall never loose a lie,

Whether you walk by wood or fell.’

‘My tongue is mine own,’ True Thomas cried;

‘A goodly gift you would give to me!

With it, neither I could buy or sell,

Not at fair or tryst could I be.’

‘I could not speak to prince or peer;

Nor ask of grace from fair ladies.’”

Ruari laughed heartily at Thomas’ protest, and Vivienne sang.

“‘Now, hold thy peace! the lady said;

‘For as I bid you, it must be.

Farewell, Thomas, without any guile;

You may no longer linger with me.’

‘Lovely lady, abide a while,

And some fair tale tell you to me.’

“Ah, and these would be her prophecies,” Erik said when Vivienne paused for breath.

“Indeed, they are,” Vivienne agreed. “She made many regarding the fate of Scotland, all of which have proven to be true.” She might have raised her voice again, but Erik halted her with a fingertip upon her shoulder.

“Then it is a good place to leave the tale until the morrow,” he said. He indicated the eastern sky and Vivienne noted with surprise that it was lightening. They had passed Haddington near the beginning of her song and now the dark profile of Edinburgh rose ahead of them. She had been so intent upon singing the tale that she had not noticed the miles slipping away.

“There is a gully to the south of the road here, well hidden from curious eyes,” Erik said, and she was struck again by his knowledge of this area. “I would halt there for the day and have you continue your tale this night.”

Ruari looked displeased at this prospect. “At least accept my counsel that we not all huddle together. We could be too readily surprised then, no less cornered.”

“There will not be pursuit, Ruari,” Erik said firmly. “The lady’s brother and I have agreed, after all.”

Ruari snorted. “Which would explain, of course, why that man placed a price upon your head in Kinfairlie market. I am unpersuaded of the merit of this agreement, lad, just as I am unpersuaded that the lady did not truly summon her family to us, but I shall follow your bidding, dutiful servant that I am. You might at least follow my lead in ensuring that we are not readily discovered.”

Erik inclined his head in agreement, and Ruari led them on a tortuous path far north of the copse Erik had indicated. He marched the horses through a stream, emerging from one side and the other repeatedly then traveling far downstream before letting the horses climb the banks again. Vivienne did not doubt that he chose the rocky bank deliberately. Even so, he brushed the ground behind them with a clutch of bracken, though Vivienne could see no evidence of their passing.

Finally, they circled back toward the gorse and Ruari pointed to a trio of haystacks, which must have been newly harvested. “I shall keep a vigil from there.” With nary a backward glance, he dismounted and led his horse away.

“He is vexed with you, despite my tale.”

“He worries overmuch,” Erik said mildly, then dismounted in his turn. “Though there is no doubting his loyalty.” He made to lift Vivienne down, but she lifted his hands away from her waist and slipped from the saddle herself.

“You are more sorely injured than you would admit,” she scolded quietly. The grass was thick and green here, and she could hear the trickle where the stream began. The trees clustered thickly around the bubbling water and Vivienne imagined that they would be well concealed in that shady haven.

She watched Erik lead the horse toward the verdant shadows and winced anew at his limp. She must ensure that he rested this day in truth—not pacing its duration as he tended to do—and she had suddenly a good idea of how that might be achieved.

She hastened after him and caught his sleeve in her fingertips. “Do you think it true, what Ruari said?”

“Which detail of what Ruari said do you mean? He says a great deal.” Erik removed the saddlebags as he spoke, then unfastened Fafnir’s saddle and lifted it to the ground. He cast the reins over the steed’s head and Fafnir bent to nibble at the thick grass.

Vivienne fetched the brush that he used upon the horse and handed it to him, ensuring that she granted him a caress in the transaction. “That it would be uncommon for a mortal man to mate seven times in quick succession, of course,” she said, feeling herself flush even as she made the suggestion. “It seems to me that that might be a good scheme for conceiving a son in haste.”

To her delight, a twinkle lit in Erik’s blue eyes and that elusive smile touched his lips. “It seems as much to you, does it?”

Vivienne’s cheeks heated further as she nodded.

“Then I can only offer my own best effort. No man of merit, after all, leaves a lady’s curiosity unsated.”

“It is not my curiosity I would have you sate!” Vivienne said mischievously and was rewarded by his fleeting grin.

Then Erik laid a finger across her lips. “I would never say as much, though it might well be true.”

Vivienne had no chance to reply for he quickly replaced the warmth of his fingertip with the heat of his kiss, and truly, she had no complaint with that.

Chapter Eight

Vivienne awakened at the sound of a barking dog. It was not simply the bark of a local peasant’s dog, for numerous dogs barked in unison and with some anxiety. There were hounds on the hunt, Vivienne realized when she heard the thunder of horses’ hoof beats along with the dogs’ baying.

Who would hunt so close to Edinburgh?

She spared a glance to the darkening sky and nestled into Erik’s embrace once more, reluctant as she was to move. He moved away, to her surprise, his gestures brusque.

“Rise,” he bade her. Vivienne might have protested but he turned upon her, his eyes blazing blue. “Immediately!”

Fearful whatever he anticipated, Vivienne found her boots. She managed to don only one before the bush around them began to snap with vigor. The hounds barked closer at hand, hunting birds cried overhead.

She glanced up in fear. The pair of them were surrounded by snarling dogs and stamping horses. A good dozen knights stood with their swords drawn and directed at Erik and Vivienne, their visors closed.

She and Erik were the prey they hunted. The men’s gleaming armor and bright swords revealed that they expected a battle.

Vivienne’s heart pounded so hard that she thought it might leap from her chest. Erik eased her behind him, pulling his sword as he did so. With his other hand, he slipped something cold into her belt.

It was his father’s blade. She felt the cool stone in the hilt and knew it to be so.

But why?

Vivienne was confused, though she pulled her cloak closed so that the weapon could not be seen. She dared to don her other boot. Did Erik expect her to fight by his side? Did he know these men? What had he done when last he had passed this way?

“Leave the lady be and I will not fight your capture of me,” Erik said, his voice ringing with authority. “There is no reason for her to be harmed.”

He stood proudly then, his blade raised as he confronted the party. He was sorely outnumbered and Vivienne yearned to aid him, but knew she should keep his blade hidden until she could surprise an assailant.

The men’s horses, which had obviously run hard, exhaled clouds into the late afternoon shadows. One blade then gleamed as the man bearing it urged his horse closer.

A terrified Vivienne followed the gleaming length of the sword to the man who wielded it. He pushed back his visor, his expression harsh but his features familiar.

“Alexander!” Vivienne was so filled with relief that her knees weakened. Whatever fate Erik had feared had not come to pass.

Her brother, though, neither shared her pleasure nor acknowledged her words. Erik did not ease his stance and the air fairly crackled between them.

‘Twas then that Vivienne recalled that Alexander had put a price upon Erik’s head.

“She has doubtless been harmed already!” Alexander said to Erik, his anger clear. “You broke your pledge to me, Nicholas Sinclair, and I will see my sister avenged.”

Vivienne blinked in confusion before she remembered that Alexander thought Erik to be his brother, Nicholas. Clearly there were many misunderstandings to be resolved! She stepped forward and raised a finger to explain the truth to all involved, for surely that was the best way to diffuse the tension.

Erik shoved her behind him with such vigor that she nearly tripped on her hem. “And you will have to hew me down to reclaim your sister, unless you pledge her safety.”

“Put your blade aside,” Alexander bade Erik grimly. “The lady is safe with us, and you cannot fight us all. Save yourself from injury and come peacefully.”

“There is no need for such hostility, for you see, all has been resolved.” Vivienne said cheerfully but the men ignored her. “I can explain, if you will simply sheath your blades anew.”

Alexander did no such thing. He dismounted, then moved Erik’s sword aside with the tip of his blade. “She is my sister,” he said quietly when Erik might have protested. “It is my intent to defend her honor, thus you may be certain that she will be safer in my company than in yours.” He then offered Vivienne his own hand, his gaze unswerving from a silent Erik. “Are you injured, Vivienne?”

“No, of course not.”

If anything, Alexander looked more dour. His fingers closed tightly around her own. “And have you been to a chapel to exchange your nuptial vows, as Nicholas and I agreed you would?”

Vivienne looked between the two men who regarded each other with stony expressions. “No,” she admitted. “But we have pledged a handfast...”

“Lammergeiers do not handfast!” Alexander roared, his eyes snapping with anger. “We wed, in chapels, with the blessing of priests, and thus our children are legitimate in the eyes of God and men.” He jabbed his sword in Erik’s direction. “Our agreement was that you and my sister would wed!”

“And so it was,” Erik said softly. “The lady and I chose another course.”

Alexander drew himself taller, though he was still shorter than Erik, and spoke through gritted teeth. “I granted you the chance you asked of me, I showed you the honor of my trust, and in return, you have betrayed both me and my sister. You have forsaken my hospitality, despoiled my family name and treated my sister with dishonor.”

“I did what I know to be right,” Erik said.

“This is not right. You owe compense to Kinfairlie, that is what I know to be right.”

It was evident that the two of them would not resolve this matter by themselves. Vivienne stepped between the pair and raised her hands. “Alexander, you do not fully understand and I am certain that once all is explained, you...”

“I understand all that I have need of understanding!” Alexander said, and pulled Vivienne roughly to his side.

“But Alexander!” Vivienne was determined to intervene. “There have been injustices wrought...”

Alexander turned a cold eye upon her. “The injustice in this case has been wrought against you!” He was still furious, and that he was angered on her behalf did little to reassure Vivienne.

He took a shaking breath, then studied her face. “I care only for your future, Vivienne,” he said more quietly and she nodded, knowing this to be true. His voice dropped lower. “There is injustice here that cannot go unpunished, for I will do no part to encourage our land’s descent into lawless chaos.” He held her gaze. “Unless, against all odds, you are yet a maiden.”

Vivienne flushed crimson and found nary a word upon her tongue. Indeed, the entire company seemed to hold their breath, so interested were they in her reply. Despite Alexander’s low tone, all seemed to have heard his words. A dozen men, familiar and unfamiliar, watched her with undisguised fascination.

Vivienne turned to meet the vivid gleam of Erik’s gaze. He said nothing, his gaze unblinking and without judgment. What did he wish for her to say? She felt the hilt of his father’s blade pressing against her ribs and guessed that he did not trust her kin.

And there was good sense in that. The truth would condemn Erik in her brother’s eyes, and she feared that Alexander would have his vengeance before his temper cooled.

“What will you do to him?” she asked, not looking away from Erik.

“I would not sully a woman’s ears with the details,” Alexander said, his manner ruthless. “But no man who despoils a sister of mine will ever soil a maiden again.”

Vivienne felt the color drain from her face, for she believed that Alexander would do as he threatened. His reputation as a competent judge and firm upholder of the law was justly earned and she knew he would not waver from the strict letter of the law.

And Erik had broken his pledge.

But unless she had already conceived—which seemed unlikely—Alexander’s punishment would ensure that Erik would not be able to conceive the son necessary to win back his daughters and Blackleith.

She held Erik’s fate in his hands. And he merely returned her stare, demanding nothing of her, expecting nothing of any of them.

It was, after all, what he had learned to expect from those who surrounded him. Vivienne’s heart clenched that she, she who wanted so much to aid him, could be the one to ensure his failure simply by telling the truth.

She could lie. It was against her nature to tell a falsehood and she knew she would do it badly, but Vivienne refused to betray Erik.

“I am yet a maiden,” she declared with vigor, feeling her cheeks burn even as she held her head high. “For I have been unclean these past days.”

Another man pushed back his visor and Vivienne recognized her Uncle Tynan. “Speak plainly, Vivienne, for much is at stake! Do you mean that your monthly courses have begun?”

Vivienne nodded, willing for Erik’s sake to bear the shame of confessing to such a thing before a company of men.

“Swear it,” Alexander demanded.

Vivienne swallowed. “I swear that I am yet a maiden.”

The man began to whisper immediately, though Erik’s eyes narrowed. Vivienne turned away from the censure in his gaze, guessing that he did not like that she lied.

Surely he understood though that a small deception in this circumstance was less costly than the truth might be.

Alexander was not as readily persuaded as Vivienne had hoped, his doubt more than clear. He studied her, his skepticism clear, and she knew that he would have liked to have asked her sisters for verification of the timing of her bleeding.

Vivienne feared that he might demand to see the blood, here and now, and spoke hastily to keep him from making such a request. “Only a barbarian would have bedded a woman in such a state, after all.”

Erik’s lips tightened to a thin line and he averted his gaze. Vivienne hoped that he feigned a greater disgust with her than he felt.

“And what of you? Did you bed the lady?” Alexander demanded of Erik.

Erik seemed to have been struck to stone, so long did he stand in watchful silence. “I stand by the lady’s word, of course,” he said finally, his words taut.

Still he did not so much as glance at Vivienne. Perhaps he believed her lie, and was disappointed that they had not wrought his son as yet. She yearned to confess the truth to him, that she did not yet abandon their quest, that she did not bleed, that the pledge she had made to him to bear his son was more binding that this lie she had sworn to be truth to her own brother.

She had a terrible sense that he might not believe her.

“Every soul knows that only monsters are wrought during a woman’s time,” Alexander said.

Erik granted Alexander a scornful glance. “And even barbarians such as myself have no desire for misshapen children.”

Alexander snapped his fingers and moved with decisiveness. “Seize him then!” He grasped Vivienne’s elbow and turned to march back to his steed. “We ride for Kinfairlie without delay!”

“But Alexander!” Vivienne struggled against her brother’s grip, only managing to shake free when she was trapped between Alexander’s destrier and Tynan’s black stallion.

Tynan studied her, his gaze as avid as that of one of his ravens, and Vivienne fought the urge to fidget. “If this man has not injured Vivienne, then there is no reason to pursue the matter,” he said with care.

“He has broken a pledge to me, and must face the consequence of that,” Alexander insisted.

“Unless Vivienne chooses to wed him now,” Tynan suggested. “Indeed, such a course might ensure that no malicious tales stain her repute.”

Alexander heaved a sigh, then turned his attention to Vivienne. “If you insist upon it, I will not protest this match,” he said and her heart leapt. “Though surely you must know that I would counsel you against it. You can wed better, Vivienne, than to a man whose tongue so readily utters a lie, better than to wed Nicholas Sinclair.”

Once again, the company turned their attention upon Vivienne.

* * *

Here was Vivienne’s chance to wed Erik honorably!

But Vivienne did not want a marriage devoid of love, and one glance in Erik’s direction was all the evidence she needed that he still loved his late wife Beatrice. He regarded her coldly, almost certainly doubting her ability to provide him with his son.

It was clear that Vivienne had not loosed that woman’s grasp upon his heart, though admittedly she had had little time to do so. She supposed she should have been glad that Erik had known such a potent love, one that endured forever as the love in all great tales did, but she was ashamed to find herself disappointed.

Vivienne turned away, fighting the tears that stung her eyes. The fact remained that she could not bear the prospect of her choice costing Erik all he held dear. Erik’s reasons for desiring a handfast were wrought of such good sense that she would not, could not, compel him to abandon them.

His daughters deserved better.

But neither would Vivienne abandon her pledge to Erik. She had vowed to try to bear his son and she meant to keep her word. If so doing meant that she could not wed honorably, that seemed to Vivienne to be a small price to pay for the security of two little girls.

Which left her with several tasks. First, she had to ensure that Erik was left whole, so that he could conceive a son, and then she had to ensure that he was free to do so. As much as she hated to deceive her brother and uncle, Vivienne could not condemn Erik’s daughters to whatever fate Nicholas might find for them.

The sorry truth was that Vivienne would have to tell her own family another falsehood. Her mother had always said that one lie necessitated another, and it was no consolation to find such advice to be true.

Though truly, Alexander’s conviction that Erik was Nicholas might prove most useful.

Vivienne did not so much as glance Erik’s way, lest Alexander guess her intent. She shook her head and shrugged. “He has neither injured me nor returned me for ransom, so his deeds give him more credit than you do, Alexander.”

Her brother flushed. “You speak the truth in that,” he admitted gruffly.

“And you are far from innocent in this matter,” she continued, earning her uncle’s nod of agreement.

“I would suggest it prudent that Vivienne be privy to any future discussions for her marriage,” Tynan suggested.

“I thought you loved him,” Alexander said in a whisper. “When he came to me and pledged his ardor, I thought the reason you found all other suitors unacceptable was that you yet loved Nicholas Sinclair. It seemed perfect that he now holds Blackleith, and I meant only to ensure your happiness.”

“You thought wrongly, Alexander,” Vivienne said, relieved that she could reply without actually lying. “I could never love Nicholas Sinclair, for he is cunning and deceptive. I regret only that I did not denounce him for his deeds to all of you when he ceased his courtship.” She looked at her brother and uncle, hoping her expression was resolved. “I will not wed Nicholas Sinclair.”

Alexander and Tynan nodded approval of this sentiment and Alexander flicked a finger, indicating that his men should collect Erik. “We ride for Kinfairlie with all haste!” he repeated.

“I recommend a halt at Ravensmuir this night,” Tynan said with his usual calm manner. “The horses are tired from this day, and it is both closer and better provisioned for feeding the company.”

“And I will ride onward,” Erik said. His eyes were narrowed, his expression impassive. “You have no need of my presence since all has been resolved so amiably.”

Vivienne knew that she did not imagine the weight he granted to that last word. She understood then that he meant to find another maiden to provide his son.

What if it she had already conceived? It would be months before she could be certain, unless she bled. She knew that Erik was only prepared to leave her because he believed her own lie. Oh, her falsehood already made trouble beyond compare!

“Surely, you too should rest at Ravensmuir...” she began, though Alexander interrupted her.

“It is not resolved at all, not with regards to you,” he said curtly, easing his horse toward Erik. “Still you broke your word to me, still you lied to me about your intent, and still you must answer for your transgression in my courts.”

Erik eyed him grimly. “Still you have my coin, which should be sufficient to see the matter resolved.”

Alexander straightened and Vivienne knew he did not like to be so challenged before his own men. “In my demesne, my will is done,” he said with quiet authority. “And I have declared that you will appear in my court to answer the charge against you.”

“And as a freeman, I say that I shall not do so.”

“I have the right to pursue you and I have the right to ensure that you face justice in my courts.”

Erik’s lip curled. “And I have the right to deny the whim of a nobleman who would sell his sister for so paltry a price.”

Alexander raised a finger in anger, but Erik drew his blade so quickly that the man beside him was wounded before Alexander uttered a sound.

“Seize him!” Alexander roared.

Erik’s blade whistled as he confronted his assailants and Alexander’s men closed ranks around him. Blades clashed as the peaceful glade erupted in furious battle. Vivienne gasped when she saw that they spared no effort to defeat Erik.

“He will be injured for no good reason!” she cried and lunged toward the fray. She did not get far, for her uncle caught her around the waist and swung her into the saddle before himself. “I must aid him!” she cried, fighting his grip. “This is unjust indeed!”

“You cannot aid a man who condemns himself,” Tynan said grimly, then turned his steed toward Ravensmuir. “A night in Ravensmuir’s dungeon will see him cured of his folly.”

Vivienne was suddenly very glad that Erik had entrusted her with his father’s blade, though she was disheartened at the prospect of freeing him from her uncle’s abode. Ravensmuir was a formidable keep, with a full curtain wall, multiple gates and a fearsome dungeon.

“Alexander made the wager with him,” Vivienne argued, fury fueling her words. “And had his payment for his terms. This man has treated me with honor, and you reward him with brutality.”

“I will hear no protest.” Alexander met her gaze, his own steely. “Fortune has smiled upon you and you should be grateful for your reprieve. Leave the details to me.”

Vivienne was outraged as Erik was forcibly subdued. He was bound and cast across a palfrey’s back with indignity. The sight of him, battered and bleeding, redoubled her determination to aid him, even in defiance of her entire family if need be.

She should have held her tongue, but she could not refrain from making one comment. “And so you have an innocent man bound like a criminal for no reason beyond your injured pride,” she said to Alexander and his satisfied expression immediately disappeared. “Who in this instance is the barbarian?”

“Justice must be meted with a firm hand,” Alexander said, though he colored as he defended his own command. “Much of the woe in Scotland in these days is because men do not stand by their word, and because those with responsibility do not uphold justice. I shall not count myself among their numbers.” With that, he turned his steed away.

“You must understand, Vivienne,” Tynan murmured to her. “Alexander’s authority is tenuous over the men serving him at Kinfairlie. They think him young and untested in battle; some of them seek a chance to defy him. He dared not risk leaving your assailant go free, lest he be later challenged by the men in his own ranks. He dare not risk the safety of your other sisters by failing to deal with this matter with resolve. He has had to choose, and he chose to enforce his authority in Kinfairlie’s courts. He could have meted justice here and now, at least that of a less reputable kind.”

Vivienne chose not to reply, for she had already said too much. She wondered at these tidings, for she had not guessed that Alexander had any troubles with the men in his service, though Tynan’s comment made sense.

Alexander, of all of them, had had to make the greatest change after their parents’ sudden demise, for he had been compelled to immediately become Laird of Kinfairlie. All the same, she could not countenance that Erik had suffered for Alexander’s woes.

Vivienne’s brother, Malcolm, urged his horse to trot beside Tynan’s steed. He said nothing, evidently having assumed some of Tynan’s quiet manner in the days since he had been sworn to that man’s hand. He wore a version of Ravensmuir’s colors, which marked him as that estate’s heir, and rode another of Ravensmuir’s black stallions. Malcolm seemed already much older and more stern than she recalled.

It was only as the party rode away from the glade that Vivienne realized that Ruari was not among the company. Alexander’s hounds must not have found him, or Alexander had not realized that the lone man traveled with herself and Erik. Ruari’s insistence that he sleep apart from them had proven to be good counsel.

As clearly had been his advice to ride to Queensferry without halting. Vivienne regretted that she had not endorsed his plan. She had feared for Erik’s welfare, though halting for the day had only resulted ultimately in his sustaining more injury yet. She swallowed as she thought of the chilling gaze he had granted her earlier and hoped fervently that he would be able to forgive her for her family’s deeds.

Vivienne also hoped that Ruari would be sufficiently intrepid to follow the party back to Ravensmuir. She, after all, would need all the aid she could muster to see Erik freed.

* * *

It was the conviction of Ruari Macleod that women were naught but trouble, and worse, that beauteous women were trouble beyond belief. He had thought that Erik’s scheme to claim Vivienne had been a misbegotten one from his first hearing of it, but the deed had been done by the time he had found the lad. He had also believed that it was folly to discount the talents of any woman kin with those at Ravensmuir, particularly her ability to speak with the ravens of that keep. He was not in the least bit surprised to find his suspicions proven right on all counts.

Nor was he happy about the result. He watched the large party ride back toward that cursed keep, their manner merry now that they had captured their prey. He had crept closer and listened keenly, disliking every morsel that reached his ears. The lad had treated the maiden with honor and she had rewarded him with treachery.

Her sole favor to Erik had been her insistence that her maidenhead was intact. Ruari did not doubt that this claim was for her own advantage alone, for she could still be wed well if none believed she had been sampled already, but her vow might have the benefit of ensuring that Erik would not be unmanned.

Though it was clear that he was to be roughly treated all the same. Perhaps the brother of the maiden had not truly believed her words.

It mattered little. Ruari trailed the company, its triumphant members not in the least bit cautious about the noise they made. A pair of dark birds circled over the front of the group, where the lass rode with her kin, and Ruari could have readily guessed what manner of birds they were.

He kept his hood raised, and loitered so far behind the company that he might have lost them, if he had not known their destination.

Ravensmuir. Dread rose in Ruari’s throat like black bile, but he could not abandon the pledge he had made to William Sinclair. The lad was his responsibility and he dared not fail him.

The sun set like livid red eye over the highlands, the sky grew thick with clouds. The clouds darkened ominously as they rode ever eastward, the darkness enfolding the last rays of the sun as if extinguishing it. A cold wind stung Ruari’s face, and he found no good portent in the fact that it came from the sea.

There was trouble ahead, and foul weather as well. Ruari had no taste for either, and he wondered now why he, as a youth, had not been content to remain by his mother’s fire at night, herding goats by day. He could yet be there, content and a little plump, perhaps with a wife of his own who could make a pot of ale now and again. It would not have been so bad of a life.

Then Ruari remembered William Sinclair, a great man far beyond any he might have encountered in their small village, a man who had taught him much, and he knew why he had left.

All too quickly, Ravensmuir itself loomed ahead, a massive shadow against the roil of sea and sky. Ruari shivered at the very sight of it, even as he halted his steed. He was relieved when those birds disappeared behind the high curtain wall and did not fly skyward again.

There was no village at Ravensmuir, just empty moor for the last half mile or so before the gates. Those gates opened to admit the company, then swallowed them, like a demon devouring men in its greedy maw. Ruari paused down behind the last thorny hedge that offered a meager shadow and considered his course. The first heavy drops of rain began to splatter on and around him.

Ruari wrapped his cloak around himself and straightened his tabard. He squinted at the brooding face of Ravensmuir and shook at what he was compelled to do to keep the pledge he had made.

But he knew William Sinclair well enough to know that his late lord would not be one to accept excuses. William had never been one to flinch before a deed that needed doing, however unsavory the task might have been.

Ruari was not so bold as to guess whether his destination when he left this earth was to be heaven or hell, but he knew that whichever it was, William Sinclair would be awaiting him there. Ruari knew that any omissions he might have made in seeing that man’s last demand fulfilled would not be forgotten by him for all eternity.

Ruari lifted his hood, squared his shoulders, and began to ride toward Ravensmuir’s gates. He might well die in the attempt to aid the lad this time, but there was no honor in walking away from one’s pledge. He kept his head high, though he feared that he stepped squarely into folly.

He might meet William sooner than either of them had anticipated.

After all, Ruari could not juggle and he could not sing. The Laird of Ravensmuir did not appear to be in need of mercenaries, nor would he be desirous of information about his neighbors with a hoard of spying birds to do his bidding. To be sure, Ruari knew no such news, but he could have fabricated some if so doing had offered some prospect of success. Ruari could recount a tale, though he knew only one and it was hardly whimsy.

He could only hope it would suffice.

Doubts assailed him with every step closer to those dark gates, as if a shadow fell ever longer over his heart. Ruari hoped with sudden vigor that Medusa had neglected to mention his presence when the bird had told the laird where to find Vivienne and Erik.

Otherwise, his arrival—and his intent—might be anticipated.

Ruari swallowed but did not slow his pace, even at that daunting prospect. He might be stepping into a trap—he would not put as much past the sorcerers of Ravensmuir—but a man who swore a pledge at the deathbed of another did not truly have any choice.

Ruari hoped that this choice would not be his last one.

He also hoped that William Sinclair would grant him credit for trying to fulfill his pledge, even if he failed in so doing.

* * *

Tynan called for ale to be poured in Ravensmuir’s hall when the party returned. Their arrival had clearly been anticipated—perhaps by some earlier command of Tynan’s—for the trestle tables were at ready in the hall and the tantalizing smell of roast meat carried from the kitchens.

Vivienne was in no mood to tell Alexander how wondrous he was, though he clearly was proud of his feat. He seized her hand and held it high, acknowledging the applause of Tynan’s household. “Vivienne is returned, hale and untouched!” he cried. The entire company, as well as those in Tynan’s household, cheered.

Vivienne smiled, though her thoughts churned with the problem before her. How would she manage to set Erik free? Every gate that clanged shut behind them seemed to make the feat more impossible.

What if it was impossible?

What if she could not aid Erik?

Malcolm, who had once been her ally in many a prank, now hovered so close to Tynan and echoed that man’s grim manner so well that his alliance could not be in doubt. There would be no aid for Erik from him.

“Let me tend the prisoner,” Vivienne said on impulse to her brother. “He was injured by your men and it is the responsible of a good laird to see his prisoners tended.”

“Then Uncle Tynan will see the deed done by another, you can be certain,” Alexander said dismissively. “Come to the board, so all can see that you are hale.”

“I would offer to do aid him.” Vivienne had thought this might grant her a chance to see Erik, but Alexander shook his head.

“You have need of a bath, a hot meal and a long sleep,” he said with affection. “Not more responsibilities.”

“But...”

“You will not do this, Vivienne,” Alexander said with resolve. “I forbid it.” Vivienne glared at her brother, who had never spoken to her with such a harsh tone, and he glared back at her, clearly unapologetic.

“It is common,” Tynan interjected, “for one who has undergone an ordeal to feel fondness for the party responsible for that ordeal.”

“That makes no sense,” Alexander said.

“Nonetheless, it is true.” Tynan watched Vivienne with his wise eyes and she wondered again how much he saw of her inclinations. He shook his head, then cupped her elbow in his hand. He was so calm, so certain of himself, that it was easy to be let him lead her along. “Come to the board, Vivienne, and revive yourself with ale and meat. You will forget what you have experienced by the morrow.”

Such was Vivienne’s attitude toward her kin that his words made her wonder whether rumor contained a germ of truth. Had Ruari uttered a truth in naming her uncle as a sorcerer? Would Tynan ensure that she forgot Erik, by slipping some herb into her ale? There could be no greater travesty, to her thinking, for she was possessive of her memories of their time together.

And she would make more such memories.

“I am not hungry, in truth,” she protested. “Nor do I have any thirst.”

Alexander laughed. “I wager that you will be hungry beyond belief once you let a morsel cross your tongue. The fare at Ravensmuir is most fine, and you look to be pale for lack of food, Vivienne.”

“Nonetheless, I have no desire to eat.”

“What did you eat this past day?” Alexander asked.

Vivienne glanced downward. “Some cheese and bread. An apple or two. Simple fare but sufficient of it.”

Alexander snorted.

“You must sit at the board for a while,” Tynan urged smoothly. “The better for all to see that you are well. Without doubt, you have had an ordeal and the merriment will ease your mood.”

It seemed that what Vivienne desired was not to be. She followed their lead to the board and lifted a cup to the company with false cheer, hoping against hope that she could escape her brother and uncle soon.

It was the sight of her youngest sister that eased Vivienne’s mood. Elizabeth pushed her way through the crowd in the hall, her eyes dancing with pleasure.

“Vivienne!” Elizabeth cried as she made the high table. Vivienne darted down from the dais, uncaring what her brother had to say about that.

Elizabeth caught her in a tight hug and spun her around joyously. Her greeting was more to Vivienne’s liking. “We were all so fearful for you. Are you hale?”

“Hale enough.” Vivienne heard Erik’s influence in her short reply but she did not have the heart to say more.

“Perhaps she has greater need of a sister’s companionship than a meal at the board,” Alexander suggested to Tynan, who smiled with affection at the pair. As always, Elizabeth had a talent for persuading Alexander to soften his stance, sometimes not even by trying to do so. For once, though, Vivienne did not find this vexing.

Elizabeth pulled back and studied Vivienne. “You do not seem that hale.”

“I am tired, no more than that.” Vivienne forced a smile. “Where are Annelise and Isabella? Did they not accompany you here?”

Elizabeth grimaced, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “They were forbidden to accompany us. I was only allowed to come this far because of Darg.”

“Darg?”

“That fairy aided our quest for you,” Alexander said. He ruffled Elizabeth’s hair, though she ducked from beneath the weight of his hand, then rolled her eyes.

“You will tangle my hair!”

“While you would prefer to tempt a suitor?” Alexander teased.

Elizabeth flushed and folded her arms across her chest, failing completely in her attempt to disguise the fullness of her breasts. She had been embarrassed about her new curves since their sudden and recent appearance, though was more uncertain of the attention men now granted to her. She cast a wary glance over her shoulder at the mostly male company, then turned to Vivienne alone.

“Darg said you would be found this night. Indeed, she granted me a verse specifically for Alexander. Ride west, ride west with main and might; a maid will be saved this very night. Between the river and the sea, a dozen strides from the chestnut tree; near the vale of Elphinstone, there you will find the one wanted home.”

“And you were there in truth!” Alexander said, hoisting his chalice high.

As the company cheered, Elizabeth dropped her voice so that Vivienne alone could hear her. “I did not tell them the rest, for Alexander would have been furious. Do not trust Malcolm with any morsel you wish to keep secret,” she advised, casting a disparaging glance at their brother. “He is as Tynan’s left hand since coming here.”

It could have been argued that there was no small advantage in Malcolm’s choice, for he stood to inherit Ravensmuir if he served Tynan well and allowed himself to be so groomed. Two years Vivienne’s junior, Malcolm had the wits to know that he had been graced with a rare opportunity. She did not doubt that he would never jeopardize it and would have readily told Elizabeth as much.

But it was impossible for the sisters to speak further. The company erupted into noise at the sight of the prisoner. The company bellowed, stamped and spat as Erik was carried into the hall. Vivienne turned away, so unable was she to look upon him so beaten and bruised. He was as yet unaware of his circumstance and Vivienne blamed herself for the many injuries he had sustained.

“That is Nicholas Sinclair?” Elizabeth whispered in shock. “And he was once so handsome a man. Look at the scar upon his face!” She cast a sharp glance at Vivienne. “Has his charm diminished as well as his looks?” She wrinkled her nose. “I never liked him, though it might solely have been because he stole your attention away from our games. I always thought he had too much charm, that he was too certain of his own merit.”

Erik was taken to the dungeon and the men settled contentedly to their meal. They were excited after their successful capture of the supposed villain and anxious to share their tales. A song began even as Erik was carried away and Tynan repeated his call for ale.

Vivienne did not want to spend time in their company.

“Can we not eat alone in the solar, as we used to?” she asked, granting their brother a glance. “I should love to have a chance to talk with you, Elizabeth, without Alexander listening to our every word.”

“I do not listen to every word!” Alexander protested.

“You try to do as much,” Elizabeth retorted. “And you are much less amusing about the matter since you have become laird,” she informed him with the honesty of youth. “Once you jested with us and were an amiable companion, now you demand this and that more sternly than ever Papa did. No wonder Vivienne did not miss your company.”

Vivienne saw how the casually uttered words stung Alexander, for he looked suddenly stricken, but Elizabeth seemed oblivious. She turned a smile upon Tynan, obviously certain that she could win her way from him. “Uncle Tynan, you cannot make Vivienne remain here with all of you men after what she had endured. I shall ensure her welfare, you can be certain of that.”

“Then, go,” Tynan said with amusement. He laid a hand upon Alexander’s shoulder. “And may God judge us more kindly than bold maidens do, especially when we have ceased to be amusing.”

Alexander smiled at his uncle’s comment, but Vivienne saw that no merriment reached his eyes. She felt torn then, for she guessed that her brother had a more difficult time with the burden of Kinfairlie than she had understood.

She and Alexander had always had a certain camaraderie, and it stung that he had not confided the truth in her even as she felt a desire to ask him for it now.

On the other hand, he was disinclined to even listen to her side of matters and that was disappointing indeed. It was clear that whatever bond they had shared was now severed, though Vivienne wondered if she alone was saddened by that.

It mattered little, for she meant to fulfill her pledge to Erik. Thus, she followed Elizabeth from the hall, only half heeding her sister’s merry chatter.

How would she escape this doughty fortress without detection? That Madeline had managed as much should have been more encouraging than it was, but Vivienne knew she could not match her elder sister’s merit.

All the same, she would have to try.

Chapter Nine

Elizabeth tugged at Vivienne’s hand and led her toward the stairs. “I can do better than this noisy hall, to be sure. The castellan’s wife likes me, because Darg has taken a fancy to her and she likes to hear Darg’s verses. I could be Lady of Ravensmuir with such influence!”

“I thought that position was yet held for Aunt Rosamunde.”

Elizabeth shook her head vehemently at that, then glanced back at their uncle in dismay. “Do not so much as utter her name,” she counseled in a whisper. “Uncle Tynan becomes most angry at the very mention of her.”

“Why? He was the one who sent her away,” Vivienne was disinclined to grant understanding to her brother and uncle in this moment. “I heard the cruel things he said to her and I do not blame her for leaving.”

Elizabeth winced. “I think he loves her yet. And Darg says that their ribbons are entwined, for the moment at least.”

Vivienne remembered now this curious matter of ribbons. When their elder sister Madeline had been courted by Rhys, Darg had shown Elizabeth the ribbons that unfurled from each person in the hall. The ribbons of those souls destined to live and love together, according to Elizabeth, were entwined together.

The spriggan Darg could make a great deal of mischief, again according to Elizabeth, by knotting ribbons or shredding them, a feat which created obstacles for the lovers in question. Elizabeth claimed that Darg had attacked the ribbons of Tynan and Rosamunde with a vengeance, a result of her dislike of Rosamunde, and certainly that mortal pair had argued beyond expectation.

“That sounds ominous,” Vivienne said.

Elizabeth nodded. “I do not like how Darg says it. She still holds malice against, Rosamunde, of that I am certain.”

Vivienne could not keep herself from being skeptical. “Darg could be lying.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I suspect not in this matter. She wants dearly to avenge herself upon Aunt Rosamunde and awaits her return so keenly that I cannot bear to hear more of it. She is most excited to be at Ravensmuir, I can assure you, and her wild antics have kept me from sleeping at all.” Elizabeth yawned widely. “Though, of course, it was fear for your welfare that kept me awake in truth.”

“I was hale enough.”

Elizabeth granted Vivienne a long glance but said nothing more on the matter. “Darg is utterly convinced that Rosamunde will arrive at Ravensmuir at any moment, despite the fact that I have told her that Rosamunde herself swore never to return. We have argued about the matter so much that my head hurts, but still Darg insists.”

Vivienne let her sister lead her up the stairs to the chambers above the hall, only half-listening to her chatter.

“Do you know what Darg wished to do last night, in the very dead of the night?” Elizabeth demanded.

Vivienne shook her head, not truly interested.

Elizabeth flung out her hands. “She wanted to descend to the caverns beneath Ravensmuir! Can you imagine greater folly? Alexander would have my head...”

Vivienne halted mid-step as inspiration struck. “Darg knows the caverns,” she said, realizing the import of that. She had forgotten about the labyrinth that wound beneath Ravensmuir. Could one get from the dungeons to the caverns and thence elsewhere?

Vivienne did not know, but she thought that she might soon find out.

“Of course, Darg does! She has lived there for centuries,” Elizabeth said with easy confidence. “She might even know them better than Uncle Tynan, or than our brothers, who played there so much when we were children.” Elizabeth shivered. “I do not like them, not in the least, and I refused to accompany her there. I fear, though, that she may go without me, for she is very intent upon the matter.”

“Where is she now?”

“Sitting upon your left shoulder, nodding with her usual glee and recounting the rest of her verse.”

Vivienne had momentarily forgotten that there was more of it. “What was the rest?”

“Ride west, ride west with main and might; a maid will be saved this very night. Between the river and the sea, a dozen strides from the chestnut tree; near the vale of Elphinstone, there you will find the one wanted home.”

“That was the part you told Alexander.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth smiled. “And this is the part I kept from him: A mirror of herself she will be, though few will have the skill to see. Though loosed from a suitor most unlikely, changed forever will this maiden be.”

Vivienne felt her lips part at the truth of this. “What does Darg say about ribbons?”

“It matters little what she says, for I can see yours with my own eyes.” Elizabeth stared over Vivienne’s shoulder. “It is a shimmering silver, as if wrought with the dust of opals.”

“And is there another?”

“A ragged one, as dark a blue as a midnight sky,” Elizabeth grimaced. “It is stained and most disreputable of appearance, though the blue is a wondrously vivid hue. It has been a lovely ribbon, though now less alluring than once it was.” She smiled at Vivienne, who wagered that the blue ribbon might also be stronger now than it had been. “It is the Nicholas’ ribbon, is it not?”

Vivienne declined to answer, for her family’s misunderstanding of Erik’s true identity might prove useful again. “Are they entwined?”

“They were, though the blue one is torn. A mere thread of it continues and I cannot see whether there is more or not.” Elizabeth frowned. “How curious. I wonder what that means.”

Vivienne guessed that it meant that Erik was in peril, either from Alexander’s justice or simply from his injuries. She would have to aid him this very night.

How she wished she could see Darg for herself! The fairy’s aid would be invaluable in this. She spared a glance to her shoulder, but saw nothing uncommon.

“She is over there now,” Elizabeth said, pointing to the rafters. “She likes to oust any birds fool enough to settle there.”

Vivienne studied each rafter in the general direction Elizabeth pointed but could see no spriggan.

Elizabeth cast herself onto the cushions piled in one corner of the chamber at the top of the stairs, then turned her sparkling gaze upon Vivienne. “So, now that we are alone, you must tell me all. Did you lie with Nicholas in truth? Was it wondrous? Did it hurt as much as Vera insists it does? I think that she only tells us as much to ensure that we are not overly curious. Perhaps Alexander has even commanded her to do so, for if ever a man lost his ability to savor amusement, it is Alexander this past year.”

“I am yet a maiden,” Vivienne lied again. “My courses began on Friday, so I have been unclean these days and nights.”

Elizabeth winced, then sighed. “How regrettable. I knew that you would tell me what it is like if you knew, for you have always been unafraid to tell the truth.” Vivienne tried not to flinch at her sister’s certainty of that. Then Elizabeth frowned. “But did you not bleed just a few weeks past?”

Vivienne shook her head. “You must have me confused with Annelise.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I distinctly recall you complaining, and Annelise never complains. It is most unnatural, do you not think, and makes the rest of us look discontented?”

Vivienne smiled and sat down. “Perhaps you are discontented.”

“Without a shadow of doubt,” Elizabeth agreed cheerfully. “You must have some detail to confess, though. Can Nicholas recount a tale? He must have some merit. You could never love a man who did not share your affection for tales.”

“He says little,” Vivienne admitted. Erik did not tell tales, she realized, but his quest would make a good one.

Especially if he succeeded, with her aid. She saw him in her mind’s eye, naming his daughters and measuring their heights, and her gaze misted with tears.

There had to be a way out of Ravensmuir’s dungeons!

“I did not recall that Nicholas was silent,” Elizabeth mused. “His sole affection seemed to be for stolen kisses and listing his own merits to any soul fool enough to listen.”

Vivienne said nothing.

“Oh, but you must be hungry!” Elizabeth rose suddenly to her feet and made haste toward the door. She moved with the same purpose as their late mother and the unexpected resemblance between Elizabeth and Catherine brought a lump to Vivienne’s throat. She saw suddenly from whence Elizabeth had inherited her ripe curves, for she stood the same height and the same shape, her hair was the same hue, as Catherine’s had been. The other sisters were wrought more slender, perhaps more like the women on her father’s side of the family.

It was never far, this grief for the loss of her parents, though now it assailed Vivienne at the strangest of times. She thought then of Erik and wondered whether he felt the same way about his father’s demise.

She would have wagered as much, so certain was she that they must be in agreement about such fundamental matters, though she knew that her conviction was wrought of little beyond instinct.

“I promised Uncle Tynan to see you fed, after all,” Elizabeth continued. “I will return in but a moment—do not fear, the castellan’s wife will ensure that we have a wondrous meal here!”

With that, Elizabeth was gone and the chamber fell quiet.

Vivienne sank unto a pile of cushions, her fingers worrying the rich fabric as she thought. The challenge before her seemed insurmountable indeed. Without Darg’s aid, even if Vivienne managed to free Erik and lead him into the labyrinth, they would probably not find their way out before Uncle Tynan found them.

Which meant that Elizabeth would have to aid in Erik’s escape. Vivienne nibbled on her lip, knowing that Elizabeth would earn Alexander’s ire thus. She did not want to cause trouble between her siblings and would have preferred to have leave her sister in innocence and ignorance.

Where did one find a fairy?

Vivienne raised her chin, carefully studying the beams of the ceiling and every nook in the walls. “Darg?” she asked, then repeated the query more loudly. “Darg? Are you yet here? Can you choose which mortals can see you? If so, I beg of you to choose me!”

There was no discernible reply. Vivienne waited and watched, hoping for some glimmer of the fairy’s presence, but she saw nothing uncommon. As far as she could tell, she was alone.

She called again, she prowled the perimeter of the room, but all to no avail. All she could hear was the merrymaking of the men in the hall below, their raucous laughter and their drinking songs.

Either Darg was not here, or Vivienne could not see her.

Vivienne sat down to await her sister’s return and decided that she would simply tell Elizabeth the truth, all of the truth, then hope her sister chose to be of assistance.

There was little else she could do.

While she waited, she pulled the dagger out of her belt that Ruari had brought to Erik from his father’s deathbed. It was not a long blade, though the scabbard was richly ornamented. The hilt was an elaborate piece of metalwork. The grip was twisted like plies of a rope wound together and the pommel held a blue stone of remarkable size. Four prongs, shaped like claws, held the stone captive, though it caught the light in a most uncommon way.

Vivienne moved closer to the lamp and saw that there was both a word and an image cut into the gem, which was a rectangle as long as the first two digits on her index finger.

“ABRAXAS” was the word inscribed in the gem, as well as Vivienne could tell. It was not a word she knew and she wondered if she read it incorrectly. Perhaps it was initials or a word in another tongue.

Above the letters was a tiny figure that looked to be of a man—until Vivienne looked closer and saw that his head was that of a bird, and his legs were an odd spiraling shape. Were these errors of the engraver, or of some import?

Vivienne could not say. She pulled the blade from its scabbard out of curiosity and was pleased that the steel gleamed even in the low light of this chamber. It had been honed many times and was graced with a few nicks, but the edge was wickedly sharp. This blade had been treasured, to be certain, and she wondered how old it might be, or what powers it was reputed to hold.

Then she wondered how she would persuade Elizabeth to aid her, frowned and put the blade away. There were more important puzzles before her than any legends linked to the Sinclair hereditary blade.

* * *

Erik awakened in a dark, dank cell, and could have guessed in which keep it was located. There was a flickering lamp left on the floor in the far corner and the wild dance of the flame made ominous shadows. His sword and dagger were gone, though that was scarcely surprising, and he ground his teeth at the recollection that he had willingly granted his father’s blade to Vivienne.

No good deed was ever left unpunished, to be sure. Vivienne had said as much and in this moment, he could find no fault with her thinking. He supposed that he should have been glad that none of those rough mercenaries had been able to seize his hereditary blade, but knowing it was in the possession of the woman who had deceived him was no consolation.

For Vivienne had deceived him, and done as much so well that Erik had never suspected her motives. He had thought her persuaded of his reasoning when she had accepted a handfast instead of a marriage. He had believed her when she professed a care for his welfare and had agreed with his plan to halt for the night.

In truth, she had only ensured that they did not ride too far, the better that her family could retrieve her.

She had not truly forgiven him, but had merely feigned as much. She had contrived that they halted close enough to Ravensmuir that they would be discovered by her kin. And there could be no doubt of her motives, for she had refused to wed him when granted the chance.

Vivienne’s pledge to aid him was a lie, as was her apparent desire for him. Erik Sinclair and his meager charms clearly would not suffice for a lady the like of Vivienne Lammergeier.

Which meant only that he, once again, had been fool enough to grant trust where it was unwarranted.

Erik stared sourly at the lamp and acknowledged that she had undoubtedly suggested the seven couplings not out of lust for him, but to ensure that he slept like a corpse. Her family had been upon them before he had even heard them approach, so exhausted had he been by their lovemaking.

Worst of all, he had been witless enough to believe that a beauteous damsel raised in wealth might find him alluring or his quest worth fighting. Beatrice should have taught him the full measure of his allure to such women, but nay, he was too much of a fool to have already learned his lesson from experience.

His father would have reminded Erik that he had always seen the good in others before he spied the bad, no less that to do as much was a dangerous habit.

That only made him realize that his father was dead, that William’s wry voice would never again be heard in Blackleith’s hall. And that was a truth that Erik could not face in this moment.

He sat up quickly to avoid his thoughts and the chamber cavorted around him at the sudden move. His head throbbed. There was dampness on his temple, and when he touched it, his fingers were stained red. Indeed, that slight movement had set his head pounding so vigorously that he could almost forget the pain in his hip.

He ignored both, pushed to his feet and crossed the cell to examine the lamp. There was no more than a vestige of oil remaining in the vessel, doubtless to ensure that he could make no mischief of note with it. The flame danced so vigorously because it would gut itself soon.

Erik took advantage of the light now to survey his prison. It was square, the ceiling low enough that he could barely stand, its walls wrought of fitted stone and its floor of pounded earth. There was a drain hole in the floor, as well as the tip of the nose of the rat that peered out at him from that drain.

The rodent seemed to eye him with a measure of assessment.

Erik wondered whether he would be fed some fearsome slop, or whether he would be abandoned in the pending darkness for the rat and its comrades to feast upon. Neither were promising prospects.

He turned his back upon the creature and paced, pausing to try the stout wooden door. The door did not budge, but then he had not expected it to.

The course from this point was clear. Erik would face the laird sooner or later to answer for breaking his word. There was no possible verdict save ‘guilty’, for he had not wed Vivienne. No happy compromise could be negotiated, now that the lady had spurned Erik before all.

He glanced at the rat once more, irked that a similar charge had been cast against him—and unjustly—once again. Why was it that women chose to cast doubt upon his potency? He did not doubt that most of the men in Alexander’s company would have been glad to sate themselves with Vivienne, whether she had had her courses or not. He did not doubt that they jested in the hall over their ale at the impotence of the man imprisoned beneath their feet.

Indeed, he could hear their merrymaking.

This would not end well, that much was for certain. Erik did not expect Vivienne to defend him, much less to reveal that he was not his brother Nicholas in timely fashion.

He considered his fate with a frown. The punishment could vary. He could be disfigured, marked as an outcast for the rest of his days by the loss of an eye or the tip of his nose or one of his ears. That was not particularly troubling, given what he had already endured, though it would be painful. He stretched his leg and thought he could do with somewhat less pain in his life.

He could be condemned to have a more significant part of his anatomy removed, namely the one at root of the issue. That was not a comforting prospect. If Erik survived that ordeal, he would neither be claiming a maidenhead again nor providing that male heir that the Earl of Sutherland had demanded for his aid.

Of course, Erik might simply be executed. Alexander was sufficiently vexed to demand a harsh punishment. Erik supposed that prospect should have bothered him less, as he was already reputed to be deceased, but it was that chance that made him pound upon the wooden door in frustration.

He was not yet prepared to die.

His daughters still had need of him.

Erik hammered his fists against the wood and shouted, knowing it was to no avail, pounded more loudly and bellowed for justice.

There was no reply. If anything, the festivities overhead seemed to grow louder. He finally halted and leaned his brow against the wood. The rat, he noted, watched with some interest, as if curious as to whether he was weakening.

“It is the girls,” Erik told the rat, as there was no one else likely to listen. “There will be no one left to defend them once I am as dust.” He grimaced at the portal and gave it one last kick. “Although I have done a poor job of that defense thus far.”

The rat seemed to find this argument cogent. It appeared to nod several times, weighing the merit of Erik’s words, then it turned and disappeared down the hole. There was a faint sound of scuttling feet before silence pressed against Erik’s ears again.

He supposed Ruari must be pleased to have his predictions proven aright. The man could not truly have wanted to be burdened with the task of aiding Erik, and now he would be free to make other choices. So, there was an advantage to Erik’s disappearance in that.

Indeed, there were many. Nicholas would keep Blackleith uncontested; the children would forget about their rightful father; Vivienne had probably already found another suitor or three; Alexander would keep Erik’s coin and the Earl of Sutherland would not have to undertake a battle for which he had no heart. Truly, there would be none to mourn Erik if the Laird of Kinfairlie felt particularly vengeful on the morrow.

Erik surveyed his prison, his fists clenching and unclenching in frustration. He would not surrender. He would fight for his children until his dying breath, and he would fight more fiercely when that last breath seemed closer.

There was no way out of the cell but the single door which was securely locked against him. The drain was no bigger around than his wrist, so that offered no option for escape. Erik paced, willing his aches and pains to diminish. This might be the most dire circumstance in which he had ever found himself, but he would not abandon hope.

Someone at some time would open that door.

Erik had no weapon and he had no tool. The lantern sputtered and died in that moment. He also had no light. He had nothing but his wits—which were proving to be meager—and his bare hands.

But he had his anger and he had his determination. When some sorry fool opened that door, that man would learn what those few assets were worth. This might be destined to end poorly, but Erik would not accept his fate meekly.

He crouched opposite the door and leaned his back against the wall. He placed his booted foot over the drain, for no rat could lift the weight of him and it would take a while for the creature to chew through his heavy soles. These southern boots had the advantage of being sturdy, at least.

In that pose, he took what rest he could while he awaited his chance.

To his astonishment, Erik’s thoughts turned unbidden not to all he had lost over the years, but the lady who had just betrayed him. He found himself wishing that he had one last chance to explain himself to Vivienne, one last chance to kindle a light in her marvelous eyes, one last chance to plant a son in her womb.

And that only proved his wits useless indeed.

* * *

Elizabeth nearly tripped on the hem of her kirtle, so anxious was she to return to Vivienne. She carried a pair of bowls of steaming venison stew, a loaf of bread that was yet warm, and a pitcher of ale. The crockery cup she carried for the two of them to share was stuffed into her belt, along with a pair of carved wooden spoons, and she felt the cup loosing itself with every step. She had not a spare hand to secure it, though, and the castellan’s wife had been too busy to grant her more aid than she had done.

Elizabeth hastened through the hall, artfully avoiding the grasp of many a man who assumed her to be a serving wench. Curse these breasts of hers! If ever a man looked her in the eye again—instead of looking rather lower than that—Elizabeth was certain she would wed him on the spot.

Provided that he was handsome, rich and inclined to seek adventure, of course.

She kicked a man who grabbed at her and he laughed even as he tried to tumble her into his lap. Had her burden been only her own meal, Elizabeth would have abandoned it to strike him, but she knew that Vivienne must be famished indeed. She avoided his outstretched leg and contented herself with a scathing glare in his direction before hastening onward.

Elizabeth reached the bottom of the steps, breathless from her efforts, then eased slowly up them so as to not trip upon the hem of her gown.

Cups were abruptly banged upon the board, urging the men to heed some announcement or another. Elizabeth paused on the steps and glanced back. The man who had tried to trip her leered in her direction, but she ignored him.

Alexander stood and cleared his throat, looking as pompous as he possibly could. Elizabeth fairly ground her teeth at the change in her eldest brother, who had been so much more entertaining before their parents’ deaths. He had become a tedious old man, obsessed with honor and justice, before Elizabeth’s very eyes. She would never have believed it possible, had she not seen it herself.

It was time enough, to her thinking, that one of the sisters played a prank upon him, just as he used to play pranks upon them. He was impossibly smug when he had his way, which irked Elizabeth beyond belief.

“Here is a night in need of a tale, for we will none of us be quick to sleep this night, and here is a teller of tales in need of a cup of ale. I bid welcome to Ruari Macleod, a teller of tales arrived in most timely fashion, a man come to our door in the moment we have greatest need of his talent.”

A stocky man stood before the head table, where he had obviously made his offer of a tale for a meal. He bowed to the company with clear trepidation, a large saddlebag at his feet. He was older, his hair an unruly russet thatch, his garb rough and his face growing redder by the moment. He looked around the hall, not nearly so at ease to be the focus of attention as one might expect of a storyteller, and cleared his throat a good dozen times.

A serving woman topped up his cup of ale, clearly thinking that was the issue. He nodded at her, then bowed in gratitude, doing so with such clumsiness that he spilled the ale. The assembly laughed, thinking this a jest, but the man’s face only reddened to a deeper hue. His uncertainty grew more apparent as the expectant silence stretched ever longer. He stood mute, looking at them, and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Elizabeth darted up the stairs to find Vivienne pacing in a most uncharacteristic manner. Vivienne pivoted and must have seen that the cup was about to fall. She quickly lifted the two bowls out of Elizabeth’s grip and Elizabeth pulled the cup out of her belt just as it worked itself loose.

“Just in time!” Elizabeth said with triumph.

Vivienne did not share her smile. “Is Darg here?”

“Of course. She prefers smaller chambers to the hall and remained here to dance on the rafters while I was gone. Mark my words, she will descend upon the ale if we do not drink it quickly.”

Elizabeth poured the ale, and heard Darg’s cry of delight. “Can you not hear that?” she asked, but Vivienne shook her head. She pointed, sensing her sister’s disappointment, as Darg swung from the rafters on a doughty cobweb, screaming all the while.

The fairy jumped at the precise moment that would ensure that she landed upon the handle of the pitcher. “Some ale for you but more for me; a finer taste there cannot be,” she said, smacking her lips. She leaned down to put her mouth to the ale, intending to drink like a dog and doubtless drink it all.

Elizabeth swatted at the fairy and nearly spilled the ale. Darg dodged the blow, scurried around the lip of the pitcher, then squatted on the rim.

“Pest!” Elizabeth cried, pushing the fairy aside. Darg jumped to her shoulder, clucking and complaining, as Elizabeth managed to pour ale into the cup she and Vivienne would share.

She offered her sister the cup and found Vivienne regarding her with confusion. “I will assume that you have not been struck mad,” Vivienne said with a smile. “But that you aim to keep the fairy out of the ale.”

“Darg likes mortal ale overmuch, and is a cursed amount of trouble once she has had some.” To foil the fairy, Elizabeth knotted a handkerchief over the top of the pitcher. Darg crawled across it, peering through the weave at the ale beneath, then whimpered.

Vivienne was no more cheerful than the fairy. She seemed concerned about some matter, perhaps overly disappointed that she could not see the fairy. Despite the fact that she must be hungry, Elizabeth watched her sister push the stew around the bowl.

“You have not taken a bite. I thought your bowl would be clean by now,” she teased, and gained only a tiny smile.

“I am not that hungry,” Vivienne said and put the bowl aside. The shadows in her eyes were undeniable, though Elizabeth guessed her sister was not ready to speak of what troubled her. Vivienne had a merry heart, by nature, and was impulsive of tongue. Her inclination to silence this night was one that Elizabeth thought should be respected for its rarity.

They had time aplenty to share tales, for Elizabeth doubted that Vivienne would wed soon. Indeed, she was of an age that might preclude her marrying at all.

“A storyteller has arrived,” Elizabeth said, hoping to cheer Vivienne, who so loved tales. “He is not a very good storyteller, at least not thus far, for he seems most troubled about making a beginning. And he is old enough that one would think he would have had years to conquer his fear of a large company. Perhaps he is not truly a storyteller at all.” She shrugged and ate some of her stew. “We could sit on the steps, out of sight, and listen.”

Vivienne straightened and her eyes brightened. “How old is he?”

Elizabeth considered as she chewed. “Maybe he has seen fifty summers, or maybe he has seen forty that were challenging. I cannot say. He is old, to be sure.”

She managed to speculate no more, for Vivienne darted down the stairs. Elizabeth trailed after her with her meal, and found her sister’s face alight as she peered around the corner of the wall.

“You know this man,” she guessed.

“His name is Ruari Macleod,” Vivienne said with certainty.

“Do you know where to begin, old man?” cried some stout soul in the company. “Your tale is thin soup thus far!”

The men roared and murmurings of discontent grew.

“Once upon a time!” Vivienne shouted.

Elizabeth peeked and she saw the older man’s relief at this encouragement. He waved a heavy finger in the direction of the stairs. “Aye, there would be the beginning of the tale. Once upon a time, there was a man and there was a woman...”

“We know this tale, old man,” a man said in the crowd and a coarse laugh echoed through the hall.

Ruari rounded upon the man with annoyance and jabbed that finger in the heckler’s direction. “You do not know this tale, you cannot know this tale, for I am here to tell it to you. It is my tale and my gift, though it was lived by another man.”

“Then begin it in truth,” cried the unrepentant man.

This Ruari squared his shoulders and his voice grew so loud that it filled the hall. “Once upon a time, there was a man who lost his heart to a woman of Norse lineage, a woman with hair as fair as flax and eyes as blue as the sea. She was not so lovely that wars were fought over her favor, and she was not so finely wrought that she might have been confused with a fairy queen. She was simply a woman, a fine woman with a good heart, a woman with a clear brow and vigor in her limbs, a woman who would bear him sons and love him as fervently as he loved her.”

“I am needing such a woman myself,” another man jested, though his companions nudged him none-too-gently to silence.

“And so this man confessed his admiration to the lady, and asked her to put her hand into his. And she agreed, despite the fact that he had little to his name save his honor and his blade. He was the youngest son of five sons borne to an old Highland family, and his family could grant him only their blessing. The lady loved him well enough to accept his suit and so they were wed.”

Elizabeth sank down on the step, quietly eating her stew as she listened. She watched Vivienne, who heeded this Ruari’s tale with unexpected interest.

“In time, and with much labor, they wrought a home for themselves, albeit one far more humble than either had known before. And in time, the woman bore a son to her husband, a boy with hair as fair as his mother’s own. And because the boy so favored his mother’s kin, they gave him a bold Norse name. Erik means ‘ruler forever’ and invokes the great champion Erik the Red.”

Elizabeth watched Vivienne ease forward on her seat, the meal forgotten. Did she know some man named Erik? Elizabeth did not. Where might her sister have met such a man?

Meanwhile, the storyteller continued. “So it was that in time, God granted this couple another son, another boy as golden and healthy as the first. But as God takes with one hand, so does he take away with the other, and the woman died in the birthing of her second son. And the husband knew not how he would raise these boys without his wife by his side and he feared his sons would need greater protection than he could grant them. So, he named the boy Nicholas, in honor of the saint known to have had affection for children, and he entreated that saint to show favor to both of his sons.”

But wait. Elizabeth frowned. Alexander had pledged Vivienne’s hand to Nicholas Sinclair, who had an elder brother named Erik. The Sinclairs were an old Highland family. Nicholas cooled in the dungeon, captured for breaking his pledge to Alexander.

And most intriguingly, Vivienne had spent two nights and days in the company of Nicholas, unchaperoned. Elizabeth eyed her sister and was not at all convinced that Vivienne did not care for the man in Ravensmuir’s dungeon. She was also unpersuaded that her sister truly bled as she insisted.

It had not been Annelise a few weeks past, Elizabeth knew it.

Could the arrival of this storyteller, known to Vivienne against all expectation, be coincidence? Elizabeth thought not. She listened more closely as the storyteller continued.

“Though the father taught the boys as well as he could, both of them felt often that their father was merely biding his time before he too slipped away to join their mother. It seemed that as the boys grew, their vitality was gained at the cost of their father’s vigor. By the time they were men, tall and strong and triumphant in battle, he never left his bed.

“The older son, fearing that his father missed the plenty of his youth—for both boys had heard the tale of their parents’ simple beginnings time and again—began to expand their humble abode. He fought avaricious neighbors on every side, he secured his borders, he built a stone keep, and he did it all in his father’s name. He took no credit for himself, but swore it was his father’s plan, his father’s training, and his father’s inspiration that granted him the fortitude to conjure affluence from nothing at all. He was valiant in battle, his word could be relied upon in treaty, and he was trusted for his honor by all.

“The younger son, meanwhile, had no care for labor. He preferred to savor what he could charm from others, or what he could trick them into granting to him, for he believed that only fools toiled, sweat and shed blood. He was fair to look upon and used that to his advantage in gaining his desires.”

This was consistent with Elizabeth’s memory of Nicholas Sinclair. She glanced to Vivienne in time to see her sister nod grim agreement. She tapped her on the shoulder. “Then how can you care for Nicholas?” she whispered.

Vivienne started in surprise. “I do not.”

“But he is in the dungeon and you clearly fret for him...”

Vivienne shook her head, then heaved a sigh. “It is Erik Sinclair who is in the dungeon,” she confessed quietly. “It is Erik Sinclair who captured me.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth at this revelation then closed it again. Vivienne turned her attention back to the storyteller. Elizabeth scarcely breathed, for she knew now that she heard the tale of which Vivienne was a part. She put her meal aside and even ignored the splash of Darg leaping joyously into their half-empty cup of ale.

Ruari continued. “The brothers argued on occasion, as two wrought so differently only could, but they hid their quarrels from their father—the younger one had no desire to appear poorly in his father’s eyes, and the older one had no yearning to tax his father’s strength. Perhaps the father did not fully understand the nature of Nicholas until it was too late. Perhaps he did not wish to know. I do not know the truth of it, save that it was.”

Elizabeth was snared by the injustice of the father’s error. Darg belched, then climbed from the empty cup of ale, staggering slightly in her course toward the pitcher. The fairy swung up on the handle of the pitcher, landed atop the handkerchief, and began to gnaw a hole in the cloth.

Elizabeth was too transfixed by the tale to care.

“The elder son wed happily, to a local beauty name of Beatrice, and an alliance was sealed with the love match. Two daughters were born to Beatrice, and Erik was proud as ever a father could be. And so it seemed that all was well, though the younger brother had a fierce jealousy of the elder.”

“This tale will turn from bad to worse,” Elizabeth whispered in trepidation. Vivienne but nodded once, her attention fully fixed on the older man’s voice.

Chapter Ten

“And so it came to pass that one dark day, Erik was summoned without warning by an ally, one Thomas Gunn, who professed need of his aid. Erik left his wife and his children and his home well defended, though it became clear that he had not prepared for treachery from within. Erik arrived at the abode of Thomas to find those lands at peace, and to learn that his neighbor had sent no summons to him.”

“Nicholas deceived him!” hissed someone in the company, and Elizabeth was certain that man had named the culprit aright.

“Aye, Nicholas indeed, though none dared make such a bold accusation then. Once Erik had left his home, Nicholas asserted himself as laird, though most thought the claim a temporary one.”

“The cur!” shouted one man in the assembly. “I will wager that he had a scheme to see the change wrought permanent!”

Ruari lifted a hand. “Who can say with certainty, save Nicholas himself? I will tell you, though, that Erik was assaulted upon the road while returning to his own abode, that he was attacked where he least expected such a deed—for, as you will recall, he knew nothing of the changes at his home. He knew only that the message he had received from Thomas Gunn had been an error.

“And so it was that Erik was surprised upon his own road, he was beaten senseless, he was cast from a cliff. He was believed to be lost to this world forevermore and, indeed, they held a funeral mass for him when he did not return to Blackleith and mourned his passing for a fortnight. It was said that his horse returned home without him, and Nicholas let it be known that he searched endlessly for his brother, without success.”

“While he had been the one to see to his disappearance,” muttered one man to assent from the hall.

“This explains his scars,” Elizabeth said quietly, though her sister did not reply.

Ruari paused and Elizabeth eased to the lip of the stair, so anxious was she to hear the next increment of the tale.

Vivienne, she noted, listened just as intently, though she did not seem as horrified by the tale. Did Vivienne know it already?

“He cannot have been dead in truth!” roared a man in encouragement. “That would be the end of your tale.”

Ruari shook his head. “Erik was close to dead, to be sure, but Fortune finally smiled upon him. A powerful neighbor gone hunting found Erik some days after that man’s own funeral. He recognized Erik and thought to grant him an honorable burial. Imagine his surprise when the supposed corpse began to speak!”

The company laughed, though Vivienne did not. Elizabeth watched her sister fold the fullness of her kirtle repeatedly between her fingers, utterly unaware of her own fretful gesture, and guessed that Vivienne had lost her heart to this wronged Erik.

“And so it was from this neighbor that Erik learned of doings at his abode. He learned that it was said that he had been assailed upon the road by bandits and that a funeral mass had been sung in his honor. Erik, though, could not fully credit the rumor of his brother’s deception. In the end, the neighbor—who was the Earl of Sutherland—made Erik a wager which would prove the truth of his claim. The Earl of Sutherland offered to make a visit to Erik’s abode and to secret Erik within his company, so that man could see the truth for himself.”

Elizabeth stood and took Vivienne’s hand in her own. Her sister’s fingers were chilly. Vivienne returned Elizabeth’s squeeze, though she did not glance in her direction.

“And so it was done, though Erik was certain that the Earl must be mistaken. It had long been said that the Earl of Sutherland was overly suspicious, after all. But just as the Earl had foretold, Nicholas called himself Laird of Blackleith. Nicholas was not, however, content with mere suzerainty over what he had stolen from his brother: he not only claimed authority over the family holding, but insisted that his brother’s children were of his very own seed.”

“No!” someone in the company roared.

“Aye!” Ruari retorted. “Nicholas said that he had been compelled to render the marital debt to his brother’s wife, for Erik had been incapable of so doing. No man would have believed that he was not desirous of union with Beatrice, for the woman was a beauty beyond compare.”

“And what did she say of it?” demanded a man.

Ruari shrugged. “No one knew, for of Erik’s beauteous and loyal wife, there was no sign. The Earl believed that she had defended her spouse and been killed for that deed. After all, Nicholas claimed he had seduced Beatrice in lieu of her rightful spouse, which must have shamed her. This time, Erik put credence in the Earl’s suspicions, though he mourned his loyal wife in truth.”

“Such treachery must see its due!” shouted another man. The company began to growl in discontent, so fully were they upon Erik’s side.

“But surely the father protested,” argued one man.

Ruari shook his head sadly. “Beguiled by Nicholas’ silvered tongue, the father denounced Erik, he called his eldest son the shame of his beloved wife’s womb. And he retired, shaking, to his bed, leaving Nicholas uncontested as Laird of Blackleith.”

“It will be a feat to wring a happy ending to this story,” Elizabeth whispered.

“That it will,” Vivienne agreed.

“What happened?” prompted one of the men, his words quick with impatience.

Ruari lifted his head and spread his hands as he addressed the company in a bold voice once more. “It took a long time to heal Erik’s wounds, though I would wager that some of them never did heal. He always limped. He always was scarred. Once hale, choices were before him. He might have left his homeland forever, he might have earned his way as a mercenary in a far country, but fear for his daughters made him desire to remain close. There was little he could do alone, though, and he had no men he could summon to his side. His brother had fortified Blackleith and few even knew of Erik’s survival who might have aided him.

“Just when he despaired utterly of success, fickle Fortune smiled upon him again, as so oft she will. The Earl of Sutherland, who was disinclined to enter his neighbor’s squabbles but also hated to see injustice pass unpunished, offered Erik a wager. The Earl had been troubled by that visit to Blackleith, nigh as troubled as Erik had been. The Earl was much concerned with stability and the clear passage of inheritance. Many woes come of daughters, such was oft declared by him, and I believe it was a matter of concern to him that only two daughters were the progeny of the Sinclairs. He saw trouble ahead, did the Earl, and he thought to resolve both that and the trouble at hand.

“And so it was that the Earl of Sutherland pledged to Erik Sinclair that if Erik could conceive a son, a son whose paternity was beyond doubt, then he, the Earl of Sutherland, would not only defend that son, but that he would muster an army to retrieve Erik’s holding of Blackleith from his brother Nicholas.”

“Erik took the wager,” Elizabeth whispered.

“What else might he do?” Vivienne murmured in return. The sisters’ hands entwined and locked together, their knuckles white with the vigor of their grip.

“And so it was that Erik sought the one maiden in all of Christendom who had perceived his brother to be the viper he was when first she met him, the one woman who had spied the darkness of Nicholas’ heart with a single glance, the one woman whom he believed could grant to him not only the son he needed but grant that son the discernment he would need to survive and to succeed.”

Elizabeth watched Vivienne and knew who that woman was.

“What will you do?” she asked.

Vivienne shook her head. “He must escape, this very night, before Alexander condemns him.” She flicked a glance at Elizabeth. “I beg you not to betray me to Alexander.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the very prospect. “Of course not! But how will you do it?”

Vivienne met Elizabeth’s gaze. “I had thought that our sole chance might be through the caverns.”

“You mean to leave with him.”

Vivienne nodded. “I promised him that son. I pledged to do my best to conceive and we have a handfast for a year and a day, as well. My path lies with him.”

Elizabeth hurried to grant her sister a hug, hearing all the unspoken nuances in those few words. This quest might not end well, for great odds were stacked against Erik Sinclair. It frightened her to think of Vivienne in the midst of it, yet she could well imagine her sister making a difference in the end result.

Elizabeth wanted to do her part. “I will persuade Darg to show us through the caverns. We can ensure your escape with her aid.”

“You would do this for me?”

“Of course!”

“But Alexander will be angry with you, of that I am certain.”

Elizabeth waved away that concern. “Alexander has his own way far too often these days. I shall savor the chance to ruin one of his schemes.”

Darg gave a cry then as she fell through the hole she had gnawed in the handkerchief. There was a splash as the spriggan fell into the pitcher of ale. The fairy made a gurgling sound and Elizabeth swore. She plunged her hand through the hole in the cloth and seized the wriggling fairy by her breeches, then gave her a stern shake.

Darg coughed with gusto, then released a belch sweet with the scent of ale.

“Immortality has not sharpened your wits,” Elizabeth said, tapping the fairy’s back with more vigor than was strictly necessary. “We have need of your aid this night, and you might see fit to be sufficiently sober to grant it.”

Darg opened one eye slyly, then sat up instead of making some comment. She sniffed the air, as hungrily as a hound on the hunt, and her smile turned malicious. “The thief returns on the storm’s tide; she thinks her lust cannot be denied.” Darg began to cackle as if her merriment could not be contained. She rolled to her back, laughing and laughing, her feet kicking in the air helplessly.

Elizabeth could make no sense of her chatter and had no patience for it. Clearly the spriggan was drunk and that at a most inconvenient time.

“Enough about Rosamunde,” Elizabeth said with disgust. “I have told you time and again that she will not return. I ask you only to guide us through the caverns this night.” Darg glanced this way and that, murmuring to herself and granting Elizabeth no reply. Elizabeth looked to Vivienne, who watched her with care. “I am sorry, but I cannot warrant what Darg will do this night.”

“Then we shall have to do our best,” Vivienne said, turning to watch the company with rare resolve. “There will be no other choice so good as this one and we dare not sacrifice it.”

Even if it meant sacrificing herself. Vivienne’s resolve could mean nothing less. This was love, Elizabeth thought, and found herself thrilled in its very presence.

It was only right that success be theirs this night.

* * *

Vivienne inched forward to peer around the corner at the foot of the stairs. She watched as Ruari shrugged and paced the hall slowly, apparently deep in thought. The hall was silent as all waited for the next increment of the tale.

“Tell us!” cried a bold man in the crowd. “Tell us how he regained all he had lost!” The men roared and thumped their cups on the tables, many of them stamping their feet with enthusiasm. Alexander and Tynan exchanged a smile, Alexander clearly pleased with himself for seeing fit to hire the storyteller this night.

He might not remain so pleased for long.

Ruari sighed and straightened, letting his gaze trail over the company as if he dreaded what he must say. “I wish I could tell you as much, but the Earl of Sutherland’s daring scheme came to naught. The chosen maiden betrayed Erik, as had every soul in all of his life. Erik died, nameless, forgotten and unavenged in a sorry pit of a dungeon. As to the fate of his daughters, I dare not guess.”

The men in the hall stared incredulously at the storyteller for a long moment of silence. Vivienne rose to her feet, knowing that this tale had been recounted for her ears, knowing that she alone had the power to change its ending.

Erik had need of her.

“No!” cried one man in the hall. “That is not fair!”

“No!” cried another. “He cannot have died afore his quest was won!”

Alexander stood and raised his hands, clearly hoping that he could calm the company. “I suggest you find a better ending for your tale, old man,” he said, but Ruari stood proudly.

“I have recounted the tale as it was,” he said. “This is the sole ending that I know, for it is the truth.”

“That is no tale!” a man roared and threw his pottery cup with vigor at Ruari. Ruari ducked, the cup smashed against the high table, and was quickly followed by another.

A tempest erupted in the hall. Crockery shattered against the floor and a roaring tide of discontented men surged toward the unrepentant storyteller. Tynan bellowed for order to no avail, Alexander shouted in dismay, and Vivienne knew what she had to do.

“Now!” she cried to Elizabeth and the two young women plunged into the chaos of Ravensmuir’s hall. Vivienne pulled Erik’s dagger from its sheath, and hoped against hope that she would not have to use it against her own kin.

“Bring Darg!” she shouted to Elizabeth.

“She runs ahead of us, using the heads and shoulders of the company as stepping stones!” Elizabeth replied.

The sisters dodged the crockery that flew through the air and tried not to slip on the ale spilled across the stone floor. Vivienne lunged for the door to the dungeon and collided heavily with a man.

It was Ruari, a bulging saddlebag cast over his shoulder.

He considered her sternly, then heaved a sigh. “There is no portent more fearsome than the attentions of a beauteous woman, upon that any man of good sense can rely.”

“I mean to aid him,” Vivienne said, certain he was referring to Beatrice. “My sister can help us escape.”

Ruari looked skeptical. His gaze flicked away, then he nudged Vivienne roughly out of the path of a pair of men locked in combat. He apologized, then put out his hand for Erik’s blade. “You have wrought quite enough trouble, lass. Let me at least save the lad’s life.”

“You cannot give him a son.”

“And you will never persuade the guard to surrender the key to you,” Elizabeth interjected. “You have need of us.”

Ruari’s eyes narrowed and his mouth worked in rare silence.

“This is my sister, Elizabeth. She can see fairies, including the one that will guide us out of Ravensmuir by a hidden passage.” Vivienne heartily hoped that was true.

Ruari thought for a mere moment, his expression troubled. “Sorcerers!” he muttered. “No less an entire family of them.” He cast a glance back at the disordered company, then abruptly opened the wooden portal. He bowed with the grace of a courtier. “After you, my ladies,” he said, behaving for all the world as if it had been his suggestion that they join him.

Vivienne hastened down the steps, holding her skirts high. She feigned delight when the man granted the duty of guarding Erik glanced up from his post. “Hamish! I am so glad to find you here.”

“My lady Vivienne! And my lady Elizabeth. What trouble is at work in the hall?” Hamish was silver of hair and doughty in battle, his face creased with the lines of experience. He was trim and muscular, a formidable opponent despite his years of experience at warfare. His impatience to join the fray was most evident. “We sound besieged.”

“We are!” Elizabeth cried. “The battle is dreadful!”

Hamish’s eyes brightened at the prospect.

“Uncle Tynan has need of every man to come to the defense of Kinfairlie,” Vivienne added.

“Aye, I can hear the ruckus, but I cannot abandon my task.” Hamish spared a dark glance to the door to the cell in the dungeon. “No man assails one of the ladies of my laird’s family and is left free to escape justice.”

“Amen to that,” Ruari said gruffly. “I will watch the prisoner in your stead.”

“Indeed!” Vivienne declared. “Hamish, your blade is needed in the battle above!”

Hamish flicked a suspicious glance at Ruari. “And who is this?”

“Oh, you must know Ruari.” Elizabeth waved dismissively at the older man, to Vivienne’s pleasure. Her sister, it was clear, was more adept with a falsehood than she. “He has been in Alexander’s employ for at least a fortnight.” Elizabeth leaned closer to Hamish to whisper. “But he is more sturdy than bold, what with his age, if you know understand my import.”

Hamish nodded at this, his gaze unswerving from Ruari.

Vivienne added to the tale. “Alexander has made Ruari my escort and he is stalwart. Trust him with the key to the dungeon and no one living or dead shall loose it from his grip.”

Hamish looked lingeringly toward the stairs, but he shook his head. “I should wait for my laird’s command.”

Ruari laughed shortly. “Even one so ancient as I can ensure that a prisoner remains in his cell in this formidable keep.” He glanced upwards. “And the laird will have no chance to grant you direct orders soon, my friend. He has need of every ally!”

A bellow carried from the hall above, followed by a resounding crash. Tynan roared for order with perfect timing.

Hamish hastily untied the key from his belt and offered it to the other man. “Mind you are not tricked.”

Ruari nodded. “I am accustomed to the silver tongue of Nicholas Sinclair and the wickedness it can unleash. You can be certain that I shall not be beguiled.”

Hamish raced up the stairs, then halted just before the portal. “Swear to me, as well, that you will defend Lady Vivienne and Lady Elizabeth.”

Ruari nodded. “Never has a woman come to harm beneath my care.” He pulled his own blade, as if to show his preparedness. “The ladies will be safe with me, safer here, by far, than in the hall above. Go, man! Go and aid the laird!”

The men’s gazes met and held, then Hamish burst into the hall with a battle cry. The heavy portal closed behind him as blades clashed overhead.

“Finally!” Vivienne made to pluck the key from Ruari’s hand, the better to hasten to Erik’s aid, but the older man shook his head.

“Let me. All may not be as you anticipate.”

Vivienne’s hand dropped away in trepidation. “Is Darg here?” she whispered and Elizabeth glanced to a high corner of the chamber, then nodded.

Ruari sheathed his blade silently, then squinted as he fitted the brass key into the lock. There was no sound from behind the portal, a poor portent indeed.

Perhaps Erik had been beaten to a stupor.

Perhaps he was dead. Vivienne clenched her hands together and prayed silently. Elizabeth eased closer, her own eyes wide.

The tumblers rolled and Ruari granted them a solemn glance.

Vivienne nodded that she was prepared for the worst, and the older man began to open the massive door. The hinges creaked in protest.

Then the door slammed back with vigor. Ruari fell backward with a cry as Erik leapt from his prison. In the twinkling of an eye, Ruari was on his back on the floor and Erik knelt atop him, his hands locked around the older man’s neck.

“No!” Vivienne shouted, forgetting for the moment that she might be overhead.

“No!” Elizabeth cried.

Apparently deaf to the sisters, Erik squeezed tighter. Ruari reddened and choked.

“Fool!” Vivienne kicked Erik in the leg with all her might. “Do not kill Ruari! We have come to aid you!”

* * *

Erik blinked repeatedly, struggling to adjust his vision to the sudden light. He had been able to see little beyond the silhouette in the doorway when he launched from the cell.

He was prepared to fight his way out of Ravensmuir. He had been so certain that the door would only be opened by someone charged with leading him to some foul fate, that he had been prepared to kill that messenger.

He had not been prepared for a woman to shout at him, much less for her to kick him with savage might. She leapt on to his back and locked her arms around his neck. The bone of her forearm pressed across his throat and impeded the passage of air.

He tightened his grip, intent upon completing what he had begun while he could. The chamber dimmed around him and his head began to throb with increased vigor.

Then he heard the name “Ruari” being screamed into his ear.

Indeed, the face reddening within his grasp was familiar.

Erik had not imagined that anyone would help him escape. He had certainly not imagined that Ruari would attempt to even enter Ravensmuir, much less gain an opportunity to release him in a timely fashion. The odds were rather against such fortuitous intervention.

Yet here was Ruari, choking for air within his grip.

“Ruari!” Erik loosed his hands and the older man took a shaking gasp of air. Erik helped the older man sit up and patted his back while that man laboriously caught his breath. Ruari coughed and spat, choked and rubbed his throat. He granted Erik a foul look, which was not undeserved.

It was Vivienne who slipped from Erik’s back, against all expectation, Vivienne who had kept him from making a grievous error.

If anything she gave him a darker glance than Ruari had.

It defied belief that Vivienne had ensured his escape. Yet Erik’s shin ached so mightily where she had kicked him that she could be no figment of his fancy.

And his body responded to her presence most keenly. Her eyes were flashing and her hair was loosing itself from her braid, her cheeks were flushed and she looked ripe enough to ravish. What sorcery could she summon, that merely the sight of her would awaken such a lust within him? He wanted naught other than to cast her over his shoulder and carry her away, to possess her over and over again, to taste every increment of her flesh a hundred times.

But why had she come to his aid now? He cast a suspicious glance about himself, telling himself that she must have come to bring more woe upon his head.

There were only four of them in the anteroom to the dungeon, the fourth being a young dark-haired girl who resembled Vivienne sufficiently to be kin. She did not appear to be a threat to his survival, but one never knew.

He slanted a cautious glance at Vivienne and his heart leapt when he found her gaze locked upon him. Her full lips tightened in disapproval and she took a deep breath that made the curves of her breasts strain against her kirtle.

“What manner of fool are you to assault those come to rescue you?” Vivienne demanded, her manner disparaging. Her voice trembled, though, and he knew she had feared he might have been successful.

Indeed, he had come close to injuring his sole reliable companion.

“How dare you injure the man loyal enough to aid you?” Vivienne continued. “What manner of witless fool tries to ensure that he is not saved?”

There was little Erik could say to that, so he said nothing at all. Indeed, the vigor of his body’s response to Vivienne’s presence was nigh overwhelming. He took a step away from her and turned his back upon her. He would remain as aware of her presence as ever but she might be insulted by his manner.

“I thank you for that greeting,” Ruari said gruffly. “Remind me never to leave you vexed, lad, if that is the welcome I receive when you are glad to see me.”

“I am sorry. I thought you came to lead me to my death.”

“I know what you thought, lad,” Ruari retorted. “But you might have looked afore you leapt.” He shuddered and coughed, making more of a spectacle of his recovery that Erik truly thought was deserved.

The other maiden patted Ruari upon the back with sympathy. She was pretty enough, young and curvaceous.

Ruari, the old rogue, fairly blossomed beneath her attentions.

“Oh, you are the heart and soul of kindness, upon that any sorry soul might rely,” he crooned. “Could you rub my back a bit, lass? Have you ever been told that you have the touch of a healer? I should know, for I am descended from a long and exalted line of healers, and I tell you that I can feel the gift in your touch...”

“A wise man once taught me that time was of the essence in surprising an assailant,” Erik muttered, knowing full well that Ruari would recognize William Sinclair’s counsel.

Ruari ignored him. “Here, lass. A bit to the left, on this shoulder here. Aye, there cannot be a shred of doubt about it, you have the fingers of an angel.” He smiled up at the maiden, who rubbed his back with greater vigor while he sighed contentment. “A veritable angel.”

“An apology is as little unless it is accepted,” Vivienne said.

Erik felt the back of his neck heat, knowing that the older man deliberately tormented him. “I halted as soon as I recognized you, Ruari. Again I say I am sorry.”

Ruari snorted. “Your vision fades before its time, lad. I would have thought you might have recognized me sooner.”

“You should see Ruari rewarded for his efforts in seeing you rescued.” Vivienne said. “He was most valiant.”

Ruari fairly preened beneath this praise.

“I have thanked him,” Erik said tersely. “Though he declines the honor I would grant him. Time there will be to argue about the matter once we are freed of Ravensmuir.”

“True enough, lad,” Ruari said and finally pushed to his feet. “This slender advantage may not endure overlong.” The men shook hands and exchanged a glance that resolved all.

“What happens in the hall above?” Erik asked. “It sounds to be a fight. Has the laird lost the order of his hall?”

Ruari nodded, but it was Vivienne who spoke first. She came to Erik’s side and laid a hand upon his arm, her touch sending a treacherous shiver over his flesh. He should have expected her to touch him, should have expected her to try to draw his eye to her again. She had to know the potency of her caress, the power she held over him.

Indeed, a fire danced through his veins from the point where her fingertips rested upon his flesh. He scarce dared to breathe, he dared not speak directly to her. He dared not so much as glance her way, so volatile was his desire for her.

“It is a fight,” she said. “One launched by Ruari’s reciting of your tale.”

His tale? Ruari had told his tale? Panic flickered deep within Erik, a terror that was not tempered by Ruari’s chagrined expression. “What is this?”

“I had no choice, lad.” Now it was Ruari who was contrite. For once in all his days, the man knew he had said too much. “I had need of a tale to gain admission to the laird’s hall. I told the sole tale I know.”

“You had no right!” Erik said in a low voice and Ruari knew the portent of that tone well enough to fidget.

“I know, lad, I know, but the greater good is served...”

Erik interrupted him angrily. “What greater good is served by baring a man’s soul to a company of strangers and mercenaries?”

“It was a wondrous tale,” Elizabeth enthused, either oblivious or indifferent to Erik’s anger. “Ruari told of you and of Nicholas and of Beatrice, and their deception, and of your children and...”

Erik needed to hear no more. “What in the name of God were you doing?” he bellowed, almost regretting that he had not finished his earlier assault. “You could have told any tale at all! There was no need to recount this one! You cannot tell my tale to anyone you so choose!”

“But...”

“You have no right to tell that tale and you know it as well as I,” Erik continued. “It is not your tale!”

Ruari pushed to his feet with an effort, then granted the younger man a steady glance. “Aye, it is your tale, true enough, though my telling of it has seen you released from imprisonment and saved from certain death or dismemberment.” Ruari huffed and Erik knew his companion was insulted.

But Erik might as well have had his garb torn away, so bare felt he. It was his tale, his alone, his to share or not to share, as he so chose.

He had been robbed of that choice. Now Vivienne and her entire family knew that he had nothing to his name, that he had been fool enough to be called a cuckold and cheated of his inheritance, that his name was worth nothing at all. Not only was he a scarred cripple: Nay, now Vivienne knew that his father had disavowed him, that his children had been stolen, that his very ability to create children had been cast into doubt. It was one thing to have been beguiled by her charms, another to have lost any dignity in her eyes.

Though now he understood the reason why she had come to assist him. It was pity that had brought Vivienne to his aid after her betrayal, no more than that.

But Erik did not desire her aid, not if pity was its root.

* * *

Even as Erik seethed, Ruari made a great fuss over smoothing his rumpled tabard. “I thought it a fitting use of the tale, to be certain, though if you disagree, we can readily lock you back into that cell, and we can ensure that this key -” he waved the offending piece of brass beneath Erik’s nose “- that this key is never found again. Is that your preference, my lord?” he asked, his tone cloying. “I certainly would not wish to defy your desire to die by risking my own life to save you.”

Erik held up a hand, but was not to be granted a chance to speak. Ruari continued his tirade, barely halting for breath. “Far be it for me, a mere servant, to assume that you might prefer to live rather than to die. Far be it for me, a mere paid escort, albeit one pledged to aid you by a promise made to a man who pledged vengeance for all eternity if I failed, far be it for me...” His voice rose in volume.

Vivienne stepped between the men, her gaze simmering in a most troubling way. “To summon Hamish back to his duty with too much loud talk,” she interrupted crisply.

When Erik and Ruari turned to her, she shook her head as if chiding naughty children. “If you mean to escape undetected and create a distraction to do so, you should have the wits to utilize that distraction.”

The timeliness and good sense of her argument stole the thunder of Erik’s anger.

“Well, indeed,” Ruari said, his color rising anew as he adjusted his belt.

Vivienne crossed to a bench which the guard must have used, and reached for a familiar weapon. “And here is your blade,” she said.

To Erik’s astonishment, she handed it to him, ensuring that he was armed once again. He wondered at her intent even as he welcomed the familiar weight of the blade into his hand. This deed made no sense, given what she had already done.

Perhaps he had been loosed for sport. One heard tales of the unholy entertainments demanded by nobles in the south, and truly these lands were alien in a thousand small ways. Perhaps there was a greater challenge ahead and even Vivienne did not perceive it to be fair for him to be without a weapon. Though Erik did not grant much weight to rumor, the prospect made him deeply uneasy.

The sisters clearly did not share his trepidation, which was no good sign. The younger one nodded and spoke crisply. “We must enter the caverns before they realize we are gone.”

“What caverns?” Ruari and Erik asked in unison.

“The labyrinth that stretches beneath the keep of Ravensmuir,” Vivienne explained. “There are many disguised entries to it, and many portals along the coast. It offers the best chance to escape undetected.”

“It is not the provenance of women to make such schemes,” Ruari said gruffly. It was clear he shared Erik’s discomfiture, for he too looked over his shoulder, then up at the ruckus still erupting from the hall overhead. The men exchanged a glance of uncertainty.

Vivienne granted Ruari an arch glance. “And what would be your alternate plan for escape? We can scarce pass through the hall undetected, as Erik is tall and has already been displayed as my uncle’s prisoner.”

Ruari colored and for once had nothing to say.

“But how shall we find our way, if it is truly a labyrinth?” Erik asked, not troubling to hide his skepticism.

“We shall follow the spriggan, of course,” Elizabeth said.

“What is this?” Ruari demanded in a yelp, then crossed himself with vigor.

“A spriggan is a fairy,” Vivienne said.

“I know what a spriggan is,” Ruari retorted hotly. “Though little good comes of them and their kind, to be certain.” He eased closer to Erik. “Spriggans are more mischievous than most fairies, which says little good of them indeed. And they are said to be able to change form on demand, becoming as large as a house and as terrifying as a storm on the sea.” He dropped his voice. “Only a fearsome sorcerer would ever claim to command such an unholy creature.” And he crossed himself again.

Vivienne was dismissive of this warning. “The spriggan is named Darg and she is not so fearsome as you claim. Only Elizabeth can see Darg, unfortunately, but she has agreed to grant her aid.”

“This child commands the spriggan?” Ruari said with awe and regarded the younger sister with new wariness.

“You were the one to claim she had a healing touch,” Erik reminded the older man, who blanched. Erik, for his part, placed no credence in this spriggan’s presence.

He tightened his grip upon his blade, fully convinced that he was being led into a trap. He did not care. He could and would fight any man, now that he was freed from the cell and had his sword once more. Erik had but to triumph in this challenge to see himself free of Ravensmuir, that much was clear.

The error the Lammergeier had made was that in failing to understand how much he needed that victory.

Chapter Eleven

The sisters seemed oblivious to the men’s concerns. They turned as one and lifted torches from the wall, so at ease with their mention of fairies and labyrinths that Erik was only more convinced that the tale was a lie.

“This way,” Elizabeth said, resting her hand upon the hewn stone of the far wall. There was a shadow that had been hidden by the torch she had lifted away, and that shadow tilted beneath her touch. A gap appeared in the stone there, and the sisters fitted their hands into the space, forcing a portal to open there.

Vivienne glanced back at Erik, her eyes alight with determination and some other emotion that made his heart skip in a most unruly manner. He told himself that it was only natural that his body responded with such vigor to her, for she was beauteous and he knew already of the depth of her passion.

All the same, he hoped that the price of escape from the labyrinth was not a triumph over this particular beauty.

The light of the flames gilded Vivienne’s auburn hair and caressed her cheek, making her look regal and far beyond his aspirations. Her vitality made a lump rise in his throat, the bold sparkle in her eyes made him yearn to meet her abed once more.

For a dangerous moment as their gazes locked and held, Erik did not care whether she was the spawn of relic traders and thieves, or whether she had condemned him to captivity and torture. He saw only that she stood fearless on the threshold of a terrifying darkness. Her bravery was not due to folly, for he could see the intelligence in her gaze, which only made him admire her audacity all the more.

And for that potent moment when time stood still, Erik Sinclair knew only that he wanted to be with Vivienne again, for as many or as few moments as were possible, for any time in her company would be well worth any price demanded of him.

This he knew was the true threat of Vivienne, this descendant of sorcerers with her unholy allure. She had betrayed him and, without a word of explanation or apology from her, he was prepared to forget what he knew and to trust her anew -- or at least to bed her once again. His body defied his own good sense, and desire would trick him into error.

He knew better than to be so readily seduced.

Erik forced his expression to become grim as he steeled himself against Vivienne. He claimed a torch and stepped past her as if she were not awaiting him, as if there was no expectation in her eyes, as if the scent of her flesh did not make his very innards clench. He told himself not to feel a cur when the shadow of disappointment touched her expression.

He did not trust Vivienne; he dared not do so. She had saved him only to lead him to greater peril. At least, she would abandon him in a labyrinth and leave him to wander until he died of starvation and thirst. No fairy which could only be seen by one of the sisters was going to be his salvation.

“It might well be a trap, but I suppose we have little choice, lad,” Ruari muttered, unconsciously echoing Erik’s thoughts. He cocked his head at a sudden crash from the noisy hall above. “We will not cross that hall unobserved.”

Erik nodded and lifted his sword high. “A man can only choose the path that looks less dire and hope for the best,” he replied as he stepped over the threshold of stone.

To his surprise, there were steps hewn out of the rock, steps that led downward. A waft of sea air teased his nostrils and he felt a burgeoning hope that he truly would escape Ravensmuir.

It was enough to send him striding into darkness, following the dancing flame of Elizabeth’s torch.

* * *

Like Elizabeth, Vivienne would have preferred to remain out of the caverns beneath Ravensmuir.

Unlike Elizabeth, Vivienne did not particularly trust the spriggan Darg to lead them out of the labyrinth. She dared not show her trepidation, not when both Ruari and Erik were so clearly skeptical of this course, but her heart skipped in fear when she stepped into the chill of the labyrinth.

It was so dark. The flickering torches did not seem to cast their light far into the endless blackness of this place, nor did the heat from the flames seem to disperse the coldness emanating from the rock.

Vivienne knew that there were a thousand branchings of the path, a thousand false corridors, more than a thousand dead ends. The network had been partly carved by nature, partly expanded by men who sought places to hide. It was like the comb of a hive, and Vivienne had always been convinced that there were caches of bones from those who had entered the caverns and not been able to find their way out.

She hoped they would not join that company.

“You should close the portal,” Elizabeth said with authority, pointing back to the opening that gaped wide. As Ruari was the last to step over the threshold, he crossed himself, visibly muttered a prayer, then reached to do her bidding. The dungeon disappeared as the large stone settled audibly in place.

Vivienne swallowed, for the shadows grew even deeper and the air seemed colder than it had just a moment before. Their torches flickered in unison at the change in the air, then settled. She could hear the whistle of the wind and the crash of the sea.

There had been a storm coming, she recalled, though here she felt more at its mercy than within the stronghold of Ravensmuir’s high walls.

“There is a draft,” Erik said, his words echoing around them. “It smells of the sea.”

Indeed, the flames now all appeared to be blowing back toward the dungeon. Vivienne inhaled deeply, relieved by this evidence of an opening somewhere below them.

They had only to find it.

“This way!” Elizabeth said with a confidence Vivienne did not share, and darted down the wide steps of hewn stone. She disappeared quickly, for the descent was tortuously curved, though the light from her torch guided the others onward.

There was no rail, only the stone wall to steady oneself upon, and the steps were neither level nor of the same height. Occasionally, a trickle of water made its way down a stone wall, splashing in some unseen pool far beneath them. The shadows seemed more ominous with each step, their secrets just barely kept at bay by the light of the torches. Each time an opening yawned wide on one side of the path or the other, Vivienne wondered what threats lurked within it.

It would have been easy to stumble, though Vivienne did not ask either man for aid. If anything, they were more concerned than she. Ruari mumbled his paternoster over and over again, the sound more reassuring than Vivienne would have cared to admit. Erik was as taut as a drawn bowstring, though he said nothing at all.

They made their way ever downward, the chill of the earth enfolding them. Erik held his blade high as well as his torch, and the men halted at each opening before they passed it by. Both were vigilant in watching their surroundings, as if they too expected an unpleasant surprise. Vivienne felt Erik’s distrust, though she did not wish to argue with him before the others.

And she knew that a deed would go further to regain his trust than any pledge she might make. Once he was freed of Ravensmuir with her aid, she could better explain her innocence to him.

“Why, for the love of God, would a man suffer such a warren beneath his keep?” Ruari demanded finally.

“My family traded in religious relics for years,” Vivienne said, well aware that that was no honorable credential. “My great grandfather, who built Ravensmuir, began the trade. He claimed this site, it is told, because of its natural caverns, then had them enlarged into a labyrinth.”

“Claimed or stole?” Erik asked softly, and Vivienne flushed at the condemnation in his tone. She supposed that no honest man would find merit in her family’s history and source of wealth.

“Stole, no doubt,” Ruari said. “One has always heard tales of the Lammergeier and their disreputable trade. Such caverns as these would well suit a family needing to hide dark deeds and plunder.” He snorted. “No honest man would have need of them.”

“Do you call yourself dishonest?” Vivienne asked, well aware that her family had a tainted history but protective of her kin all the same. “For you clearly have need of them on this night.”

The men exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Vivienne continued with her tale, for she ached to fill the oppressive silence. “My grandfather had no desire to continue the trade and used his ship to trade in cloth instead. He brought silk and cloth-of-gold from Araby, as well as gems which were coveted at the courts of kings and barons.”

“Which explains your family’s uncommon affluence,” Ruari muttered. “Though it is ill-gotten, at root.”

“My grandfather’s brother secretly pursued the trade for some years before abandoning it,” Vivienne said, ignoring this charge.

“How could he do so secretly?” Ruari asked. They caught up with Elizabeth then, who was deliberating between the two choices offered by a fork in the path. She nodded and strode to the right, which again led downward, her hem flying behind her.

“There were many ways into the labyrinth and Gawain knew them all,” Vivienne said, hoping that her sister truly did follow a good course. “He came without his brother’s knowledge and took what he desired from the horde here. There were many relics remaining even after he abandoned the trade, so many that the last of them were only auctioned this very year.”

Elizabeth continued the tale. “They were auctioned because our Uncle Tynan, who is Laird of Ravensmuir now, decided to be finally rid of the relics. They were a cause of a dispute between himself and his cousin.”

“What manner of dispute?” Ruari asked, clearly as anxious for the conversation to continue as Vivienne.

“I would expect that the cousin wished to have the relics, for they are valuable even in these times,” Erik said grimly.

“Indeed, she did,” Vivienne agreed.

“She?” the men asked in unison.

“Our Aunt Rosamunde continued the family trade, for she was taught well by her foster father Gawain.”

Ruari whistled through his teeth. “A woman, trading in religious relics. She must have been intrepid, indeed.”

“That she is.” Vivienne frowned. “We have always called her aunt, though in truth she shares no blood with any of us. My grandfather’s brother Gawain adopted her when she was abandoned as a babe. He and his wife raised her as his own child.”

“The same brother who pursued the trade in relics?” Ruari asked.

Vivienne nodded, feeling the weight of Erik’s disapproving silence. She knew theirs was no respectable family history. In contrast, she was very aware of the weight of his family blade, still hidden in her belt, and had no doubt that the Sinclairs had a more illustrious and valiant past. “The very same.”

“And it is Rosamunde whom Darg hates beyond all,” Elizabeth contributed. “The spriggan,” she clarified when Ruari looked confused. “Darg came to think that the abandoned hoard of relics was her own treasure, so when Rosamunde came to take any of it, Darg believed herself to have been robbed. She is determined to avenge herself, though I have told her time and again that Rosamunde will never return to Ravensmuir.”

“Because of that dispute with the laird,” Ruari said, nodding grimly. “If he auctioned the relics, he would be rid of her thievery for good. I find myself agreeing with your uncle, for a man cannot suffer infamy in his hall so readily as that.”

Vivienne bit her tongue. Though there was far more to the tale, it was not hers to share -- nor would an admission of the long standing intimacy between Tynan and Rosamunde improve Erik’s view of her family’s moral measure.

“Should we not be ascending already?” she asked of Elizabeth instead. “Surely we make for the stables? We cannot go ever downward without reaching the large cavern that grants access to the sea.”

“Or the sea itself,” Ruari said grimly.

“I told Darg as much,” Elizabeth said, then peered upward once again. She took a deep breath. “She keeps such a pace this night! We shall be winded indeed by the time we reach our destination.”

“This makes little sense,” Erik said, coming to a halt. “If we continue to descend, we shall land in the sea itself.”

“Or be trapped in some corner when the tide rises,” Ruari muttered, stopping beside the younger man.

Vivienne looked their way in alarm. “I had not thought of that.”

“Perhaps your sister does not truly know the way,” Erik said, his gaze filled with accusation.

“She does not,” Vivienne admitted. “But the fairy knows the labyrinth well.”

Erik arched a brow. “If, indeed, there is a fairy.” It was clear that he did not believe as much. He paused and looked about himself, eying the half dozen portals that opened from the corridor in their vicinity. “I suggest that we break into groups to seek a path that returns upward.”

“A sound scheme!” Ruari said.

“But we will become lost if separated.” Vivienne argued, echoing the reasoning she had been taught all her life. In truth, she was terrified of wandering alone in this labyrinth. “How will we find each other once again?”

“Darg!” Elizabeth cried and, oblivious to Vivienne’s concerns, dashed down the stairs in apparent pursuit of the fairy.

Vivienne took half a dozen steps after her sister, halting when she could still see the men. “Elizabeth!” she shouted. “Await us!” But Elizabeth raced onward, the light of her torch diminishing with alarming speed.

“Ruari and I will seek our own way, while you and your sister follow the fairy,” Erik said as Vivienne fought the urge to follow her sister.

“We must remain together,” she said, even as Ruari peered into an opening to the left. “We must!”

“This one takes an upward course,” Ruari said, then beckoned to Erik. “I would wager that wherever it erupts is better than what we have left behind. There is only space for improvement, after all.” Ruari strode into the passageway, his boots grinding on the stone and his torch burnishing the stone.

“Ruari, no!” Vivienne cried. “We must remain together.”

“Nay, there is no need of that any longer,” Erik said quietly.

His tone prompted Vivienne to look at him, and his stony expression fairly tore her heart in two. “You mean to abandon me here,” she charged, dismayed when Erik did not deny it. “But we have a handfast! And I promised to try to bear your son.”

“And I tire of your deception,” he said. “You ensured that we were not only pursued but found by urging an early halt last evening.”

“I did no such thing. You were injured! To ride further would have injured you more.”

“Then how did your kin find us?”

“It was the fairy, Darg, who granted them direction.”

Erik passed a hand over his eyes and looked away. “There is no fairy, Vivienne. Perhaps you did not contrive to be found, perhaps you did not lie to me fully. Perhaps your family only hunted us with hounds. It matters little. We part ways now, before whatever treachery your family has planned is sprung upon us.”

“What treachery? I have just aided your escape!”

“To what end?”

Vivienne gasped at the condemnation in his expression. “You cannot imagine that I have aided you to escape only to cast you in greater peril. You cannot believe that I have betrayed you!”

He granted her a cool glance. “Have you not? When we were surrounded, I was captured and beaten, all because you denied any bond with me...”

“No! I lied so that Alexander would not ensure that you could never conceive a son,” Vivienne explained, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to be understood. Erik regarded her so dispassionately that she knew she did not persuade him of her innocence. “Alexander might have unmanned you then and there, so angry was he.”

“He is vengeful, your brother.”

“He is protective.” Vivienne took a steadying breath. “I fear the responsibility for four virgins weighs too heavily upon his shoulders.”

“He is responsible for merely three virgins, by my reckoning, though your count appears to differ from mine,” he said, his tone hard. “For you have insisted to your brother that you are yet a maiden.”

“What else could I have done? Would you have preferred that I had let him do his worst?”

Erik regarded her, as if considering whether she spoke the truth. “You profess concern for me, yet you refused to wed me.”

The true reason for her refusal rose to Vivienne’s lips, but she did not want to speak of love in this moment, when Erik seemed to not even to like her. “Because you argued in favor of a handfast,” she said instead, forcing herself to sound calm, as if she had been persuaded by logic alone.

In truth, she thought of beauteous Beatrice and how poorly she must compare with that wifely paragon who had defended his rights to her own death.

“Your reasoning for a handfast is sound,” she said with care when he said nothing. “For you will have need of another maiden if your seed does not bear fruit in my womb. I would not tempt failure by demanding that you cede to my family’s expectations. I would not risk your daughters so readily.”

“And what do you gain in this?”

“The chance to aid two young girls.”

Erik frowned and turned abruptly away. Vivienne thought he might leave, but he only peered down the passage into which Ruari had disappeared.

Apparently reassured, he turned back to her, his gaze bright. He spoke more slowly now, his condemnation seeming to lose its vigor. “Doubtless I would have faced some more dire fate on the morrow, rather than simple abuse, courtesy of your kin.”

“Perhaps so, if I had not ensured your escape.”

Erik watched her so keenly, though, that Vivienne imagined that he tried to read her very thoughts. She returned his regard steadily, hoping he would see the honesty of her intent.

“Perhaps this feat is intended to provide some amusement for your family,” he suggested softly. “There is much interest in hawks and horses and hounds in this hall, after all. Perhaps I am to be hunted anew.” He took a backward step. “Perhaps I but leap from the fat to the fire.”

“My family would not do such a horrific deed!” Vivienne cried. “How can you be so certain that I mean you ill?”

“How could I trust you, after all that has occurred?” he demanded in his turn, his voice rising. “All has gone awry since I came to Kinfairlie...”

“It went awry long before that.”

Erik shoved a hand through his hair, then spoke with determination. “All was to change with this plan, and yet it does not. Clearly I have erred yet again. Since Fortune offers me a chance to survive, I mean to seize it. I will follow you and your sister no longer. It would be folly to sacrifice what slender advantage I have in this moment.”

They stared at each other in silence in the flickering light. Vivienne did not know what to say, just as she knew she could not let him leave her behind. She knew that she could be of aid to him, she knew that she must hold a key to his ultimate success for she had a sense that their partnership was no mere coincidence. She did not know how to persuade him, a man so dubious of the unseen, of such a conviction.

“Come along, lad!” Ruari roared from some distance. “I make ready progress here, and soon will not be able to retrace my steps back to you. I can fairly smell the stables, upon that you can rely!”

Erik held Vivienne’s gaze, unswayed. “What has been between us will remain our secret for so long as I draw breath,” he vowed with such intensity that she believed him. “You need fear no repercussions from a loose tongue of mine.” She made to speak but he held up his hand. “And I shall ensure that Ruari holds his peace, as well. Wed well, trusting that none will reveal that you are maiden no longer. Farewell, Vivienne.”

Vivienne stared at him, shocked to her toes that he would truly leave her side, dismayed beyond belief to hear the clamor of her heart. He stood so resolute, so certain that he could triumph alone, so noble that he would die in the attempt to save his daughters.

She knew then that, against all odds, she had lost her heart to Erik Sinclair. She might never be able to claim his affections, but she could not let him walk away. Love, Vivienne Lammergeier knew, was too uncommon and of too great a value to be discarded.

It was love that would ensure Erik’s victory in the end.

But she dared not argue as much, not yet.

So she shook her head and argued otherwise. “Erik, you cannot do this. If you leave us and Darg, you will only become lost. You will imperil yourself and your daughters in truth! I swear to you, I mean you no ill. I swear to you that I knew nothing of my family’s pursuit and I only try to set matters aright.”

“Vivienne...”

“Erik, I would accompany you. I would yet try to bear your son. I would keep every pledge I have made to you.”

“But why?”

Vivienne dared not utter the truth, so fresh and fragile to her, so she impulsively offered another more earthy explanation.

She closed the distance between them with a quick step, reached up and touched her lips to his.

Erik did not move. Indeed, he stood so utterly still that she feared he would reject her again. Undaunted, Vivienne slipped her hand into the hair at his nape and slanted her mouth across his. She kissed him with a gentle ardor, coaxing his response.

Erik remained motionless while she kissed him, and she might have thought her efforts futile had she not let her hand slide around his neck. She felt the thunder of his pulse beneath her palm and knew then that he was not so immune to her caress as he would have her believe.

He felt the link between them, as well, though still he denied its potency.

Reassured, Vivienne cast aside her torch then and cupped his face in her hands, straining to her toes to sample him fully. She kissed him again and again, urging him to join her. She heard him catch his breath, she felt his erection, she did not cease her kisses. Indeed, she slipped her tongue between his lips and was rewarded with his gasp.

And then, his resistance crumbled with astonishing speed. His arm locked around her waist and he lifted her against his chest, his kiss plundering her mouth with unmistakable fervor, as if he would devour her whole. Vivienne kissed him back with joy, knowing she had swayed his choice, knowing she could win his love.

Erik abruptly broke their kiss and put distance between them, his eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “It is a more common sorcery that you command,” he said. “But one that no sensible man would trust, all the same. Turn back and return to all you know. Farewell, Vivienne.”

With that, Erik turned to pursue his companion, raising his voice to call to the older man. “Ruari! Shout directions to me that I might find you.”

“No!” Vivienne cried and lunged after him. She took a deep breath, knowing that a confession would not improve Erik’s view of her but it was the sole way to keep him from abandoning her. “I lied about my courses,” she admitted and he froze.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. “What is this?”

“I had to stop Alexander, so I lied. I do not bleed as yet. I have not bled in over two weeks. You cannot leave me, as your seed might be well be taking root within my womb.”

Erik swore and his brow darkened. Vivienne held her breath, for she could see that he did not truly believe her, yet was tempted by the possibility.

Before he could reply, Elizabeth screamed from some point far below.

“Darg!” she cried then, apparently in anguish. “No, Darg, no!”

There was a resounding splash that made Vivienne freeze in terror. A woman screamed.

“Elizabeth!” Vivienne cried, though no one answered her.

A mere heartbeat later, Ruari swore with gusto, his exclamation echoing through the passageway he had followed. There was a crash, as if someone had fallen, and a tumbling of stone. A fierce wind surged up the stairway with sudden force, extinguishing Erik’s blazing torch as readily as a puff of breath will douse a candle.

Vivienne was cloaked in darkness, utterly uncertain of where she stood, much less where her companions might be found. “Erik?” she whispered, her mouth dry in fear.

She could hear him breathing, but he did not answer, and that was no good portent at all.

* * *

The woman addled his wits. Erik dared not linger long with Vivienne, not when she could so readily persuade him of whatsoever she chose. He had been prepared to abandon her, until she admitted that she had lied about her courses. He did not know what was the truth, whether she bled or not, whether she lied to him or to her brother, though he dared not abandon her when she might carry his son.

At least that was what he told himself. The truth was that he could not turn readily away from this woman. Even when he thought the worst of her, her kiss seared his very soul. He could not tell truth from fabrication, not when she kissed him with such dizzying abandon.

He feared that she lied, only to have him do her bidding.

Erik was utterly aware of the lady behind him, no less so when she whispered his name. The tremble of uncharacteristic fear in her voice had him turning, reaching out his hand to her. She was so bold, this maiden, so resolute, that he suspected she must deeply afraid to have given any hint of such weakness.

“Vivienne?” he replied, reaching his hand to where he thought she must be.

He heard her take a step toward him, heard the quaking breath she took, then felt her fingers collide with his. “I hate these caverns,” she said, trying to cover her fear with a laugh that only made that fear more evident.

Her bravado had Erik lacing his fingers protectively with hers, had him drawing her closer to his side. “It is no different in darkness than in light,” he said. “We still stand in a cavern below the keep.”

“It seems much worse,” she said, then unexpectedly leaned her cheek against his chest. “Please do not leave me, Erik, not alone in such darkness.”

Erik’s arm was around Vivienne’s waist before he could consider the wisdom of his impulse. In the darkness, his other senses were more sharp. He could smell the sweetness that clung to her skin, as well as the tang of her terror. Her hair wound over his arm and through his fingers like fine silk, the curve of her breast was crushed against his chest. He felt her breath against his throat and knew she had tipped her head back, knew her lips would be parted, knew she would not spurn his kiss.

But too much temptation lay that way.

Indeed, this would have been the perfect moment for some scheme against him to be launched. He had even lowered his sword and was not longer listening to his surroundings.

“Nay,” he said with resolve, putting the lady an increment from his side. “This changes naught.”

“But...”

“Ruari!” he bellowed before she could argue the matter.

There was no reply, except a muffled grunt. Had Ruari been attacked? Or had he fallen?

“I missed a step, lad,” that man shouted, his voice wavering. “And dropped my cursed torch in so doing. I am as a blind man, nay a blind man with a hobble!”

Erik sighed with relief. “I am coming, Ruari,” he shouted, then added a few words to make the older man smile. “Upon that you can rely.”

Ruari’s snort of laughter echoed down the stone corridor.

“Farewell,” Erik said, though he could not discern the lady’s presence. He could hear her breathing, though Vivienne did not return to his side. Some other emotion than fear tinged the air, though, and he thought it might have been annoyance.

Despite himself, he could not leave the matter be. “You do not argue my departure any longer,” he said. “Does this mean that you agree with my course?”

“No,” she said sharply. “It means that I will not waste my breath endeavoring to persuade you of the truth. My mother counseled against ever begging a man for any due.”

Had she lost her desire for him, so quickly as that? Erik was dumbfounded by the prospect, and in truth, a bit disappointed.

To his further surprise, Vivienne exhaled with what might have been a laugh. “Do not imagine that you have not seen the last of me, Erik Sinclair,” she said with uncommon resolve. “You might abandon me here, but I will follow you. I know, after all, your destination and your goal.”

Erik wished he could have seen her in this moment, for surely her chin was tilted high and her eyes burned with determination. There would be a flush upon her cheeks and a set to her lips that both defied argument and demanded a kiss. He had called the matter right: she was a veritable Valkyrie and perhaps it was folly to protest her collection of his soul so vehemently.

Or perhaps her vigor was yet another element of her inescapable spell.

Another scream rose from below them, followed by a splash which concealed Erik’s muttered curse.

“I am coming, Elizabeth,” Vivienne shouted, though Erik heard the tremor in her voice. He heard her hands brush the stone wall and knew she meant to feel her way in pursuit.

Whatever his convictions about the lady’s objectives, he could not abandon her to seek her sister alone, not given her fear of the darkness.

He told himself that he merely returned her favor, that he aided her to find Elizabeth as she had aided him to escape Ravensmuir’s dungeon. It made good sense, though even he knew it was not the sum of the argument.

He simply did not wish to be parted from Vivienne as yet.

“I will come for you shortly, Ruari,” he shouted. He would find the sister first, then leave Vivienne in the company of her sister and the supposed fairy-guide. Then he would seek out Ruari, tend the other man’s injuries, and they both could be upon their way.

Erik reached out and claimed Vivienne’s hand, hoping he was not falling prey whatever scheme she might have concocted with her family. “You feel the right wall and I shall feel the left,” he bade a silent and likely astonished Vivienne. “We shall seek each step together. Make no haste and we should be able to descend without incident.”

It seemed, like so many of Erik’s schemes, to be a plan that offered ready success. That, and the presence of Vivienne, should have warned him of potential complications.

* * *

Vivienne heard a splashing in the distant depths ahead, its sound echoing through the caverns with dizzying speed. Behind that sound were whispers that might have been voices.

“Elizabeth?” she called, her own voice echoing wildly.

There was no reply, merely another muffled scream.

Vivienne would never forgive herself if some foul fate befell Elizabeth, especially after she had persuaded Elizabeth to aid her. She hastened onward as well as she could.

To her relief, Erik seemed to feel the same urgency, and within moments, she had to rush to keep pace with his long strides. He took only one step on each stair, while she needed two or three; he strode into the darkness with a confidence she did not share. They reached a confluence of passageways but Erik did not hesitate in making a choice.

They might have been alone in the labyrinth, for there was only the echo of their footsteps and the distant dripping of water. Vivienne could faintly hear the lapping of the sea. Though she knew that the caverns played tricks with sound, and she knew that Elizabeth and Ruari were in the labyrinth as well, the lack of sound from either of them made her grasp Erik’s hand more tightly.

To her relief, he did not seem troubled by her anxious grip. He moved with a surety she could only envy, as if he was well accustomed to being lost in dark places.

They reached a second intersection, a salt-tinged breeze wafting through one of the openings. Vivienne smelled a snuffed torch as well, though she could not discern its source.

“This way,” Erik said without hesitation and urged Vivienne boldly onward.

“How do you know? What if you are wrong?” she asked, knowing she would have wasted precious moments weighing each choice.

“Only one course descends at each intersection,” he said. “Your sister chose always the downward path.”

“She followed Darg,” Vivienne corrected and heard Erik’s snort of disbelief.

“Her scent comes from this way, as does the smell of the snuffed torch,” he explained, his tone patient. “Can you not discern it?”

“What scent does she have?”

She felt his shrug. “I cannot explain it. It is the smell of warmth, of a person, and thus different from the scent of the stone and water surrounding us.”

Vivienne wondered what sort of scent she had, and whether he found it as alluring as she found the scent of his skin. She dared not ask when his manner was so grim. “You know how to pursue someone who leaves no trace of their path, then.”

“All men and women leave a trace of their path, even when they strive to not do so.” Erik said. “Ruari taught me to discern it.”

“And he used his skill to find you.”

Erik’s grip tightened suddenly on her hand and he pulled her to an abrupt halt. He did not have to bid her to be silent, not when he stood so abruptly still. Vivienne remained motionless, wondering what he discerned, for she could tell that he fairly prickled with watchfulness.

She could see nothing.

She could hear nothing.

She tried to smell her sister’s scent and failed.

What Vivienne smelled was her Aunt Rosamunde’s perfume. She had never smelled that enticing scent save in her aunt’s presence. It was exotic and rare, and she felt Erik’s start of surprise when he evidently caught a whiff of it.

Vivienne strained her ears and then heard the faint grunt of men at labor, the muffled tread of boots on the stone. There was another scream, one more infuriated than fearful, and she guessed who had emitted it.

All made perfect sense to her in that moment, the sounds from below and Darg’s insistence upon descending ever lower.

“Aunt Rosamunde!” she whispered to Erik in excitement. “That is her perfume. She must have returned to Ravensmuir, after all.”

“Perhaps it is not your aunt,” Erik said quietly.

“It must be,” Vivienne insisted. “So few souls know the labyrinth, and even fewer would care to visit it.”

“One cannot be certain of that. If the labyrinth has been unused, any curious soul could have explored it.”

“But why?”

“To gain access secretly to a wealthy keep would be motivation enough.” Erik sounded grim. “Your sister might have been captured, to be ransomed to the laird above.”

Vivienne’s heart skipped with fear, then she knew he must be mistaken. “But what of the perfume?” She made to tug Erik onward. “It is only Rosamunde. We must be near the large cavern where so many relics were stored. I was there once, with Uncle Tynan. There is an easy path from there to a grotto that opens onto the sea. It is large enough to hide a small boat, so goods can be moved from cavern to ship...”

Erik held his ground stubbornly. “Why would this Rosamunde have returned to Ravensmuir if she not only pledged to not do so, but if the relics she covets are gone?”

And that made Vivienne pause.

Once she would have suggested that Rosamunde had returned for her love of Tynan, but not since Tynan’s rejection. She had a feeling that Rosamunde had returned, but not returned to mend the rift between herself and her former lover. She suspected Rosamunde had come for vengeance, though she did not want to give voice to such a dark thought.

Surely he knew enough about the ignoble impulses of her family.

Instead, she let Erik believe he had persuaded her that it was not her aunt. “Perhaps you are right,” she said and hesitated.

“Even so, we must find Elizabeth,” Erik said. He lifted his blade and moved onward, though with greater stealth than before. Vivienne followed his course ever downward, heeded his instructions, and hoped against hope that her family did not provide her with another scandalous credential.

She had a sense, however, that her hope was not to be realized.

Chapter Twelve

With Vivienne fast behind him, Erik eased his way down the stone pathway. A light appeared after they turned one corner and their course became easier as a result. The sounds of activity grew louder, as well, the scrape of boots on stone and the low rumble of men’s voices becoming more clear with each step.

A woman still screamed periodically, which was most troubling. Erik rounded a corner and a lit portal gaped wide before them. He flattened Vivienne into the wall behind him and listened.

There were no sounds of pursuit. He glanced back at Vivienne, intending to tell her to wait, but one glance at her determined expression told him that she would not be persuaded to do so. He drew his blade soundlessly, lifting a finger to silence her protest. He sidled closer and peered around the corner.

Whatever Erik had been expecting, he had not expected this.

A large cavern opened from that portal, so many lit torches braced upon its walls that the chamber might have been illuminated by the midday sun. A chasm snaked its way across its floor, its jagged edges making it look like a recent fault. There was a dark glitter of water within the chasm, as well as someone splashing and thrashing within it.

“I cannot swim!” roared that person, whose voice revealed her gender. Here was the woman who had screamed repeatedly.

Vivienne’s sister did a strange dance upon the lip of the chasm, alternately reaching to aid the woman and apparently beating off an invisible assailant. “Darg, no!” she cried. She clearly could not reach the woman in the water, though she tried.

The woman in the chasm clutched the lip of the stone ledge, then jumped upward. She grunted as she braced her hands on the stone and pulled herself higher. Her hips had cleared the water, all of her sodden to the bone, when she screamed in sudden pain. She snatched her left hand away from the lip, then plummeted back into the water with a resounding splash.

“It bit me!” she bellowed when she cleared the surface again, then swore with such vigor that Erik’s eyes widened. Elizabeth kicked at something which Erik could not see. He might have thought her mad, but her kick was followed was another smaller splash further down the chasm.

“Rosamunde!” Vivienne cried. She ducked under Erik’s arm, seemingly untroubled by this strange scenario, ran across the cavern and fell to her knees beside her sister. “You keep Darg away and I will help Aunt Rosamunde.”

“I cannot see Darg any longer,” Elizabeth complained and Erik refrained from noting that no one could see the rumored spriggan. “She must be under the water yet.” The girl frowned with a concern no one else shared. “Surely she cannot have drowned?”

“I would drown her gladly myself,” the aunt muttered, looking as furious as a wet cat when she managed to climb out of the chasm with Vivienne’s aid. To Erik’s surprise, she was dressed as a man, in chausses, high boots and a chemise that had been more white than it was in this moment. Her tabard was cut longer than was typical for a man and came almost to her knees.

Her garb looked as if it had been fine, for there was gold embroidery aplenty at the hems and it was wrought of cloth of deepest black. In this moment, it dripped large puddles on the stone floor and the hem hung crookedly. Her boots squeaked when she walked, though the cut and the leather looked to have been fine. Her hair was long and she wore it loose, though it too was wet and dark.

Her eyes flashed with fury and she turned upon the men who labored diligently behind her. Erik saw now that a number of wooden crates were stacked around the perimeter of the chamber: they were old, their wood stained and their corners battered as if they were of no value. All the same, it was clear that they were being removed.

Erik wondered what their contents might be and thought better than to ask.

One third of the chamber was completely cleared: a number of men carried crates through a lit portal on the other side of the chamber but returned empty-handed. They were dressed as men of little repute, with patches on their knees and the cloth well-worn. Their garments were wet on the shoulders and their hair was wet, as well. Erik assumed this meant not only that the rain had begun in earnest, but that these men somehow were reaching the outside.

His heart leapt at the prospect of escape from Ravensmuir’s labyrinth being so close at hand.

A burly man with a golden loop hanging from one ear seemed to be directing the effort, for he watched the men keenly and berated those who slowed their pace.

It was to this man that Rosamunde shouted. “You could have been of aid, Padraig, instead of watching with bemusement.”

That man smiled. “You are too cursedly fortunate to drown, Rosamunde.” His smile broadened to a wicked grin. “And perhaps it would suit me well to be without your direction.”

“To claim my ship, no doubt,” Rosamunde muttered, wringing out her tabard with clear agitation. “All men are wrought the same, it is clear, for each thinks solely of his own advantage.”

Rosamunde eyed Vivienne, who stood her ground but clearly braced herself for questions. “And what are you doing in these caverns? Should you not be safely in your bed in Kinfairlie?” Rosamunde spared a stern glance for Elizabeth. “I would have welcomed your absence, as well, if it had meant that fiend was not here.”

Elizabeth fell to her knees, her gaze fixed on the surface of the water. “This is not right. Darg has not appeared.”

Rosamunde snorted. “And good riddance, to be sure.” She propped her hands upon her hips and gave Vivienne a steely gaze. “Well?”

“We are aiding a prisoner’s escape,” Vivienne began.

Rosamunde looked pointedly about herself, then arched a brow. “And you do well enough, for there is no sign of him or her.”

Before Vivienne could summon him, Erik stepped out of the shadows. Rosamunde assessed him with a boldness uncommon in women. He had no chance to introduce himself, however, for Elizabeth decided in that moment to wait no longer.

“Darg must be in peril,” she said, casting off her cloak and shoes. “I do not think she can swim.”

“Darg is immortal!” Vivienne protested.

“The world would be all the more merry with one less vengeful spriggan in it,” Rosamunde said sourly.

“She almost drowned in a pitcher of ale once before!” Elizabeth cried with dismay, then jumped into the chasm of water.

Rosamunde swore again then shouted. Padraig ran across the cavern, though Erik reached the spot where Elizabeth had jumped in first. The girl had not yet come to the surface. Erik dropped his blade and his cloak, then leapt into the water after her.

The water was cold beyond belief and darker than dark. Erik shivered then forced his eyes open. He spied Elizabeth far below him. He rose to the surface, took a deep breath, then plunged in pursuit of her.

Erik saw then that a long tendril of seaweed had found its way into this chasm. The motion of that dark plume and of the water itself indicated that the sea’s tides could still be felt here.

Which meant that it was close indeed.

Erik thought at first that Elizabeth was tangled within the seaweed, but she gestured agitatedly to him when he reached her side. She guided his hands to a knot in the weed and to his astonishment, he could feel a small limb trapped within its coils.

He could see naught but the coil of seaweed, but his fingers told no lie.

It must be Darg.

The spriggan must be snared.

That the fairy existed in truth was so startling that it took Erik a moment to realize that he could feel the creature’s struggles becoming more weak. Elizabeth tugged, but the plant was doughty and resisted her efforts to tear it. Erik fitted his fingers into the coil and tried to tear it himself, but to no avail.

Elizabeth, though, had been under the water for too long. Concerned for her fate first, Erik pushed her emphatically toward the surface. She fought against him, tapping his hands upon the coiled weed. Erik nodded with vigor, then pushed her upward once again.

With obvious reluctance, she went, though he did not doubt that she would be back. He was running out of breath himself, though the coil around Darg was fearsomely tight. The spriggan went limp even as Erik tried to free the vine, and he knew that he would have to loose the fairy immediately. He would never find this coil again, not without Elizabeth’s aid, and he wanted her to stay at the surface.

He tugged at the weed, but it seemed to clutch at the spriggan with greater defiance, as if weed and fairy fought their own battle. He struggled with the plant, wishing he had a blade and felt his chest tighten painfully.

In a last burst of effort before he was compelled to rise to the surface, Erik wrapped the length of seaweed around his fist and pulled with all his strength.

It broke somewhere further below. Erik did not care for the details. With the spriggan in the palm of his hand, he surged upward. He broke the surface, gasping for air.

To his relief, Elizabeth stood shivering and wet on the lip of the chasm. Rosamunde held her firmly, and Erik guessed she had forbidden the maiden to dive down again.

He found himself liking this aunt who was not truly an aunt, this woman who lived her life as a man but protected those chicks beneath her care as fiercely as a hen.

Rosamunde had wrapped a cloak over Elizabeth’s shoulders, her expression stern as the girl shivered. “It is madness to risk death for such an ungrateful creature,” she said, but Elizabeth was deaf to her aunt’s censure.

“Did you retrieve her?” Elizabeth fell to her knees, her face alight as Erik handed up the spriggan.

The strength of her concern reminded him of his eldest daughter’s affection for a lamb born too small once at Blackleith. Mairi had been determined to save it, though her will had been no match for the will of nature. He did not doubt that Mairi would have surrendered her own life to save the lamb, and that she would have taken such a risk without a second thought, just as Elizabeth had done for the spriggan. Though four springs had come and gone since that lamb’s demise, a lump rose in Erik’s throat at the recollection all the same.

“It may be too late,” he said.

Elizabeth cupped her hands, cradling the invisible troublemaker, then eased away the vine with care. She pumped something with a fingertip, and a gush of black water appeared on the stone. There was a minute cough, a sound that Erik barely discerned, then more water appeared. Elizabeth smiled with relief.

“Well?” Rosamunde demanded.

“She lives!” Elizabeth said, then turned glowing eyes upon Erik. “With your aid. I thank you truly!”

“What good fortune that the wretch survives to better assault me another day,” Rosamunde said dryly. She bowed in Erik’s direction, her sarcasm more than clear. “I too thank you for your courtesy in this matter.”

Padraig meanwhile reached down a meaty hand to help Erik out of the chasm. Erik’s expression must have spoken volumes, for the other man muttered to him. “It is not the strangest sight I have seen in the vicinity of this family. You had best be prepared for more of the same if you mean to linger in their company.”

Erik braced his hands on the lip of the chasm and pulled himself out of the water without assistance, for he knew not whether this company could be trusted. Padraig sniffed and turned away, either unsurprised or insulted, Erik did not care.

For Vivienne appeared by his elbow then. Her eyes shone with mingled admiration and concern. “Are you injured?”

“I am but wet,” he said gruffly, well aware of Rosamunde’s condemning gaze upon him. “And that will scarce injure me.”

“We all have need of a bath at least once a year,” Padraig said.

“Thank you for aiding Darg,” Elizabeth said, aglow with a pleasure that made Erik think once again of his daughter.

Indeed, he was sickened by the realization of what he had missed. How many times since his departure from Blackleith had Mairi been delighted with some detail he took for granted? How many such moments had he missed? And what of Astrid? She had barely been speaking when he had left to aid his neighbor. She would be talking and running by now, probably trying to best her older sister at every small feat.

“Though I do not share Elizabeth’s pleasure in that deed,” Rosamunde said. “I would thank you for aiding Elizabeth herself. I would have had much to answer for had she come to grief in my company.”

“It is as naught,” Erik said and turned away, distraught anew at what he had lost to his brother’s greed. “I must fetch my companion, now that the sisters are in good care.”

Rosamunde stayed him with a fingertip upon his arm. “You have not been welcomed at Ravensmuir, I would wager,” she said. “Not if you consider my care to be of any merit at all.”

“This is Erik Sinclair,” Vivienne interjected. “Alexander pledged my hand to him, but since has changed his thinking. He imprisoned Erik, but Erik and I have handfasted and I have agreed to help him to recover his lost holding.”

“Ah,” Rosamunde said, embuing the single sound with a weight of meaning. Her expression hardened. “And thus I am to believe that he, unlike all other men of my acquaintance, is somehow deserving of my assistance, as well?”

“I have no need of your assistance,” Erik said quickly. “I will simply retrieve my companion and be on my way.”

Rosamunde seemed skeptical of that claim. “What is your destination?”

“Blackleith, my family abode.”

“Seized by his duplicitous brother,” Vivienne interjected. “We have to reclaim it and ensure the welfare of Erik’s daughters.”

“Just like the tale!” Elizabeth said, her eyes round with wonder, then sneezed. Vivienne wrapped the cloak more closely around her sister’s shoulders.

Rosamunde pursed her lips, unimpressed by such credentials. “And where is the closest port?”

“I have no need of a port,” Erik said. “As we intend to ride.”

Rosamunde smiled. “You will have need of a horse to ride so far as that and I note that you have none.”

“We will climb to the stables.”

“Which you will be fortunate indeed to find, and more fortunate to escape unobserved,” Rosamunde said, one hand upon her hip. “The last time I was here, the Laird guarded his prized destriers with rare vigor. There were no less than twenty ostlers in his employ, and only half were permitted to sleep at one time.”

Erik frowned at this unwelcome detail.

Rosamunde continued. “I, however, have a ship, and might be inclined to grant you passage to your destination.”

“Why?”

Rosamunde’s smile was wry. “To be sure, there would be a certain satisfaction to me in thwarting the plans of Alexander, who kneels too close to Tynan’s feet for my taste.”

“And the Laird of Ravensmuir is your sworn enemy?” Erik asked, looking pointedly at the crates still being moved from the caverns.

Rosamunde laughed. “One might say that there is a certain debt owing from him to me. At least I would say as much. Tell me your destination, for the storm grows no less.”

Erik was uncertain whether to trust this offer or not. Rosamunde’s gaze was steady, though, and she would scarcely be in alliance with the Laird of Ravensmuir since she was clearly stealing from him.

“Sutherland,” Erik began but got no further before Elizabeth sneezed once more.

“Sutherland!” Rosamunde swore softly. “With autumn coming on and this storm upon us, you would have me sail to Sutherland? All ships guided with good sense are making their ways south, to Rotterdam, at least, if not to La Rochelle or the Mediterranean itself.”

“Sicily,” Padraig interjected. “My vote is for Sicily.”

“You have no vote,” Rosamunde informed him, his mischievous smile telling Erik that Padraig knew as much.

“I yearn only for influence,” that sailor said, one hand over his heart.

Rosamunde laughed in her surprise. “You will not have it soon,” she said, then tapped a finger upon Vivienne’s shoulder. “It is fortunate that you are my favored niece,” she said with affection.

“What of me?” Elizabeth demanded, then sneezed again.

“You were my favored niece, until you took company with that malicious sprite.”

“Darg is a spriggan,” Elizabeth insisted, her dignity compromised somewhat by her persistent sneezing. “By her accounting, you are a thief, and she wants vengeance upon you.”

“What nonsense,” Rosamunde retorted, then yelped and jumped backward, her hand over her face. “Something bit my nose!” Indeed, a red welt rose on the tip of Rosamunde’s nose with alarming speed.

“Darg,” Elizabeth said, punctuating the information with a resounding sneeze.

“Tell this Darg to leave me be,” Rosamunde demanded. “I have as much right to Ravensmuir’s hoard as she.”

“She does not see the matter that way.”

Rosamunde began to dance wildly, as if evading a swarm of angry bees. “It is down my shirt!” she shrieked. “Make it stop! Control your spriggan, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth tilted her head to listen to something, asked a few questions, then nodded.

Rosamunde stilled as the assault evidently halted, though she looked about herself warily. “Where is it?”

“Upon your shoulder,” Elizabeth said. “Darg wishes to make a wager with you.”

“Oh no.” Rosamunde protested. “The hoard cannot be returned. Everything that ever I have claimed has been sold, and even much of the resulting coin is gone.”

“She will make a wager for a single piece, her favored piece.”

Rosamunde’s eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

“The silver ring you wear upon your left hand.”

Rosamunde lifted her hand and Erik saw that a large silver ring did grace her index finger. It was a massive piece of silver, but its value was clearly more than that. Both sisters looked solemn at the mere mention of it and Padraig froze. The consternation of all of them was clear.

It was clearly a sentimental piece, worth far more to Rosamunde than even its considerable value.

Rosamunde’s features softened as she regarded the ring. “It was never part of the hoard,” she insisted. “There can be no wager for this ring, for your spriggan cannot have favored it.”

Elizabeth spoke in an undertone, sneezed, then shook her head. “She desires it because it is precious to you. She calls it fit compense to demand what you value in exchange for what she valued.”

Rosamunde laughed, though her merriment sounded forced. “I do not value this trinket!” she said, though she did not remove it from her finger.

Vivienne and Elizabeth regarded her with sympathy. Rosamunde looked between the two of them, but when she spoke, it was of another matter. Erik guessed that the change of topic was no coincidence. “I will undertake the fool’s journey to Sutherland, though I cannot guess how long it will take us to find a favorable wind. I suppose you would prefer the port at Wick?” she asked of Erik.

He shrugged. “Helmsdale would suit me better. Though it is smaller, it is also further south.”

“I prefer small ports.” Rosamunde turned to Padraig, who supervised the workers once again. The cavern had been virtually picked clean while they spoke. “Padraig, you will take Erik and Vivienne to the ship, if you please, and await me there.”

“But...” Vivienne protested.

“I must fetch my companion,” Erik said. “I will not abandon him for he has served me faithfully.”

“A man of honor,” Rosamunde said with a sigh, her manner mocking. Erik did not know whether she mocked herself or him, so he said nothing. “Why could you not be thirty years older, Erik Sinclair?”

Rosamunde gave him no chance to reply before she strode toward the passageway that Erik and Vivienne had just left. Elizabeth sneezed once again, and Rosamunde seized her by the arm in passing, urging the girl to match her quick pace. “Come along, Elizabeth, you have need of a hot bath. You will not suffer so much as a cold beneath my care.”

“But Darg...”

“It is customary in all negotiations to leave each party time to consider his or her course,” Rosamunde said flatly. “I will find Erik’s companion more quickly than any of you might do. What is his name?”

“Ruari Macleod. He is a good thirty years my senior,” Erik began, but managed to say no more before Rosamunde laughed aloud.

“And that may be interesting enough. I shall see you shortly. Padraig, make all preparations to depart and ensure that no harm comes to my niece.” She seized a torch and marched Elizabeth into the corridor, even as that girl sneezed with vigor once again. The sisters called farewells to each other, then Padraig tapped Erik upon the elbow. He indicated the passageway that the men had followed, and the trio made their way toward the ship.

Vivienne granted him a triumphant glance, as if tempting him to trust her anew. “We shall be at Blackleith more quickly this way,” she said. “How fortuitous that Rosamunde was here this night.”

“It is not Fortune, but the new moon that brings her to this port,” Padraig said. “And the prospect of bounty to be had for the claiming.”

“The new moon was four nights past,” Erik noted and the sailor granted him a bright glance.

“It is new enough to serve. The wind cannot always be relied upon to do a man’s will.”

Erik cast a wary glance at the lady and recalled her assurance that she did not bleed. If she did not lie, and she did carry his child, her circumstance would change for the worse if she found herself abandoned. Erik knew that he could not trust his urges with regard to Vivienne, so he resolved to remain in her company only until she bled again.

That would show the truth of her circumstance. He would but wait honorably for nature to show what had been done. He would stand by whatsoever he had done thus far, though he would not touch Vivienne again.

He would simply wait, and watch. Erik did not so much as look at the lady as he made his choice, for it would be simpler if she thought him vexed with her.

She said she had bled two weeks past and he knew well enough that another fortnight would see her do so again, unless she bore his child. With luck, the seas would remain unruly and it would take them those two weeks to reach Sutherland. If she did not carry his son, he could leave her in the protective custody of her aunt with no regrets.

Or at least, with so few regrets that Vivienne need know naught of them.

* * *

What the trio did not realize as they made their way through the caverns to the small boat was that they did not travel alone. A spriggan—in fact, a spriggan who muttered curses against a certain woman—perched on Vivienne’s hood. That spriggan shivered and looked about herself balefully as they were rowed to the waiting and darkened ship. She quickly scampered over the decks and down into the hold, snickering as she hid herself in the only cabin to be found.

Darg nestled into a fur-lined hood and cackled to herself in triumph, knowing full well who must occupy this sole cabin of luxury. She could wait for Rosamunde now and have her vengeance at leisure.

Darg knew she would have that silver ring, as well, before all was done.

* * *

The ship had long been loaded by the time Rosamunde returned to the caverns and the sea was rough as she was rowed to the ship. She raised a hand in triumph and indicated Ruari, whom she had clearly found in the caverns.

Ruari himself was as pale as a bowl of milk by the time he climbed over the side of the ship, though any comment he might have made was snatched away by the wind. He clung to his saddlebag, as if it carried his salvation. Erik aided him to cross the deck, for the older man limped upon his injured ankle.

The pair apparently had no need for Vivienne’s attentions.

All three of them were dispatched to the hold on Rosamunde’s command as the clouds churned overhead. Rain slashed against the deck with sudden fury even before they reached that sanctuary and the waves lifted the ship like a small toy.

Vivienne doubted that she was the only one to fear that they would be dashed upon the rocky shore. She looked back and saw Ravensmuir silhouetted against the rolling clouds, a dark shadow against the ominous sky.

Then Rosamunde began to shout orders to her men. The wind was fierce, but it began to turn away from the shore as the storm unleashed its power. The sails were unfurled with haste at Rosamunde’s command and turned into the wind with considerable effort.

The ship was pulled out to sea, away from the rocks and into greater potential peril. Indeed, the sea and the wind threatened to tear it asunder, to cast the ship’s occupants into the fathomless black waters.

Vivienne wondered whether her parents had endured such a storm before their ship had been sunk. Certainly, they must have known fear such as she felt now.

But there was no one in whom she might share her fears on this night, let alone any soul who might offer her comfort. Erik folded himself into his cloak to sleep, as if oblivious to Vivienne’s very presence. Ruari hunkered down fast by Erik’s side and similarly buried himself in his cloak. The two men might have been alone together in some inn for all the attention they offered Vivienne, for all the concern they showed for the weather.

Vivienne, meanwhile, sat awake, listened, and felt more alone than ever she had in all her days and nights.

It was long indeed before Rosamunde retired to the hold, for the rudder demanded a stern hand that night.

It was longer still before any soul noted that the silver ring of Darg’s desire graced Rosamunde’s finger no more.

* * *

The hour was late when the Laird of Ravensmuir climbed to his own chamber. Tynan had no taste for war, and less taste for war coming close to his young kin. He did not like to have mercenaries in his hall, even those in the employ of his nephew’s keep of Kinfairlie. He also did not like mercenaries fighting within his hall, even if they merely showed displeasure with a tale.

At least, the storyteller had had the wits to make himself scarce and the hall had gradually quieted in his absence. Tynan would not rest himself until every last mercenary fell asleep. He had sat in the hall, sipping wine from the last keg that had been brought from Bordeaux, and had found himself regretting the loss of Rosamunde.

It was no consolation to him that a storm had been rising, no less that it now beat against the stone walls. He and Rosamunde had loved most fervidly during storms, and as a result, he ached with mingled exhaustion and yearning as he climbed the stairs. He heard the wind whip at his pennant hung over Ravensmuir’s high towers, he heard the sea lash the shore.

So potent was Rosamunde’s presence that night that Tynan could fairly see her. He easily envisioned the woman who had claimed his heart, a woman with red-gold hair and a bold smile, a woman with daring in her eyes, a woman he knew he would never see again. In his mind’s eyes, she kissed her fingertips in silent salute, as if bidding him farewell forevermore, then turned away, the dark cloth of her cloak spinning out behind her as she fled.

He stepped into his chamber with a heavy heart. He set down his lantern, touched a piece of kindling to it and then to the wood stacked in the brazier.

It was then, as the wood hissed and spat, that he smelled the exotic spice of Rosamunde’s perfume.

Tynan started, then sniffed. The scent was not conjured from memory. It was real.

Yet it was the dead of the night. Not a sound echoed from within his own keep, only the wind whistled between the stones carried to his ears. His chamber was cold, uncommonly cold. His heart thundered, as if he had heard some trespasser within the walls.

There was a cold draft.

The scent rode that chilly current of air. No common scent, that. It was the perfume that haunted his dreams and its summons had Tynan holding a lantern high, crossing the expanse of his chamber.

The hidden door to the labyrinth beneath Ravensmuir hung open on the far side of his chamber. Tynan halted to stare, for he knew he had left it secured. The secret opening yawned wide and dark, the scent of the sea rising from its shadows. Wet footsteps stained the floor, and even though they dried, he knew the size and shape of that boot print well.

Rosamunde had been here. He caught his breath at the tantalizing truth of it, though she was surely already gone. He had lingered below too long and inadvertently missed her.

But Tynan had to know for certain. He was unable to decide whether he was more thrilled or irked by her presence. If nothing else, they would have a rousing argument in the caverns deep beneath Ravensmuir. He had granted six stallions from his own stables to ensure she never crossed his threshold again.

But Rosamunde had returned.

In the secret corners of his heart, the Laird of Ravensmuir was glad.

Tynan gripped that lantern and stepped into the darkness. He shivered on the top step, as always he did, then descended with purpose into the hidden caverns. There was a veritable labyrinth beneath his ancestral estate, a labyrinth that had once held a fearsome treasury of religious relics and treasures. The most precious had been auctioned, for Tynan had no desire to continue what had once been his family trade, and he had thought the rest unworthy of attention.

It soon became clear that Rosamunde believed otherwise. Tynan halted and held his lantern high to examine a small chamber. It was empty, and he knew that it had contained at least one ancient crate when last he had come this way.

Tynan hurried down the stairs, his footsteps falling more and more quickly as he discovered more empty chambers. The caverns beneath his keep had been pillaged while his gaze had been turned away.

Tynan reached the largest cavern and halted, aghast. Here there had been a number of crates, their contents unknown and untroubled. They had not been of an appearance to tempt a second look, for they had been old and broken, their wood stained from water and mold. It had been easy to believe Rosamunde’s assertion that they were empty or nearly thus, that it was not worth the trouble to be rid of them.

Tynan supposed he should have been more vigorous in ensuring that they were checked, that they contained nothing of value, but Rosamunde—who knew these chambers better than he—had dismissed their contents as worthless rubble.

He had trusted her, and he had been deceived.

He had been robbed.

He had been a fool.

Tynan cursed and kicked a stone. His yearning was replaced by anger. The stone clattered against the wall, then fell through a doorway. He heard it bounce down another staircase, then land with a splash.

If there had been value here, he could have used it to secure Ravensmuir’s future in these dark times.

Now it was gone.

Tynan cursed anew. Since the death of George, the earl of March, the year before, many blades had been raised to challenge the regional authority of Archibald Douglas. The death of Tynan’s half-brother Roland had not been timely, for it had left his inexperienced nephew Alexander as Laird of Kinfairlie just when their family lands had faced their greatest challenge.

Tynan had expended much coin and effort in keeping war from the gates of both Ravensmuir and Kinfairlie, hoping that they might ride out the storm until stability reigned anew.

But stability had proven elusive and the army in his employ—the one that kept marauding forces from Douglas, Dunbar and Abernethy from his portcullis—had proven expensive. To his shame, Tynan found himself wishing for the lost revenue of relics, even of relics of dubious provenance.

His treasury was nigh bare and Rosamunde had taken the last chance of replenishing it. Even if she had known that Ravensmuir itself hung in the balance, Tynan doubted that she would have cared. She had always mocked his affection for what she called an old pile of stones, had accused him at the end of caring more for Ravensmuir than for her.

But Ravensmuir was his legacy and his responsibility, the repository of his family’s heritage. The holding was something he had been taught to value.

He had sacrificed everything to that responsibility, and for naught. The treaty that rested unsigned in his treasury, the treaty that made his very blood boil, made a mockery of his sacrifice. It would cost him the remainder of all he held dear.

Tynan had been a thorn in the side of Archibald Douglas too many a time for that man to have any inclination to offer palatable terms. By the treaty’s terms, Ravensmuir would be left standing, but the lairdship would be stripped of authority. When Tynan had protested the terms, Douglas had made them worse.

The lairdship would continue if and only if Tynan got a son upon the Douglas bride to be chosen for him.

But Tynan had made his nephew Malcolm his legal heir to secure Ravensmuir’s succession. For Ravensmuir, he had been prepared to wed a Douglas bride, but he was not prepared to deny his nephew’s legacy for any price. He had surrendered Rosemunde for no gain.

He cursed his own folly and pivoted, marching back to his chamber. He could have used even the smallest measure of coin to mitigate the terms of this agreement, but thanks to Rosamunde, it was gone.

The caverns were silent, the source of the beguiling perfume fading with every moment. Tynan climbed the stairs back to his chamber. He closed the secret portal in his room, leaning back against it as he considered the fire in the brazier, the comfort of this chamber.

It was then that Tynan spied what he had missed earlier. Within the sanctuary of his curtained bed, something glimmered. It looked like a star, spinning captive within the shadows of the bed, but it could be no star.

Suspicious beyond all, Tynan stepped closer. He lifted his lantern higher and the object sparkled, as if tempting him onward. It was silver, it was round, it glimmered against the indigo silk.

It was a ring.

But not just any ring. It was the ring he had given to Rosamunde. It was the ring Tynan’s father had put upon his mother’s hand, the ring Merlyn had granted to Ysabella as a sign of his protection.

There could not be two rings such as this in existence. It was silver, large enough to fill a woman’s knuckle. It was graced with three stars and three names, the names of the three kings who had visited the babe Jesus in Bethlehem.

Rosamunde had worn it on her left index finger.

It was the sole gift Tynan had ever given to her. There had been precious little he could offer to a woman who roamed the seas and claimed the most elegant goods for herself, but he had given her this and he had believed that she had realized the import of his gesture.

Perhaps she had understood, for she had taken no small risk to return it to him thus, to spurn him thus.

Tynan swallowed and reached out to take the ring, letting its considerable weight settle into his palm. He fancied that it was still warm, though that was impossible. Only when he held it did he see that it hung suspended from a single long red-gold hair.

He stood, heart seared. Rosamunde had given back the only gift that he had granted her and in exchange had taken the legacy from the caverns that he had forbidden her to claim. In so doing, she ensured the end of Ravensmuir.

How dare she?

What else had she dared?

Tynan’s fist closed tightly around the cold silver of the ring as fury erupted within him and he snapped the hair loose of its mooring. He stormed back down the stairs to his dungeon on a suspicion and found his suspicion proven aright.

His prisoner, Erik Sinclair, was gone. Tynan would have wagered that his niece Vivienne was also gone, for Rosamunde could not have lost her ability to make trouble so readily as that. He ground his teeth in frustration. This was beyond revenge, this was beyond retaliation for his harsh words.

This was a taunt that could not pass unchallenged.

Tynan returned the ring the smallest finger of his left hand, where it had ridden for years until he had granted it to Rosamunde, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

For all was not yet resolved between himself and Rosamunde. So long as she had the relics, there was a chance that he might retrieve them from her.

Tynan fairly walked into Elizabeth, so unexpected was her presence on the stairs. The maiden halted at the sight of him, flushed, and pivoted to run to the women’s chambers.

“Halt!” Tynan roared in a tone that brooked no disobedience. Elizabeth stopped, her expression wary. Tynan beckoned her with a single finger. “You will tell me what has happened in the labyrinth this night.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Tynan shook his head. “Do not deny that you know of it. You are afoot too late to be in ignorance of Rosamunde’s visit.”

An increasingly familiar defiance lit the eye of Tynan’s youngest and favored niece. “Darg is missing. I have to find her first.”

“The spriggan can see to her own welfare for the moment, as she has done for several hundred years.” Tynan glared at Elizabeth, knowing the power of his glance. “You, however, will come immediately with me and tell me all that you know.”

He turned and strode to the chamber he used to manage Ravensmuir’s affairs, knowing full well that his niece would follow. He heard Elizabeth’s sigh of annoyance, then halted suddenly when she called after him.

“I will not tell you about Rosamunde,” she said.

Tynan pivoted to find his niece looking stubborn. “Whyever not?”

“Because you have been cruel to her, and she has always been kind,” Elizabeth said with the blunt manner that was becoming characteristic. “She loves you and you said too much in anger. I do not blame her for vexing you, for she is due an apology.”

With that declaration and a toss of her hair, Elizabeth strode into the women’s chambers and shut the door fast behind herself.

She had never before defied him.

Tynan stared at the portal in shock as the tumblers fell and a door in his own abode was locked against him by a maiden who had seen only twelve summers.

Worse, he knew that Elizabeth was right.

Chapter Thirteen

Vivienne was still awake when Rosamunde climbed down into the hold, a fact which the older woman noted immediately. She beckoned to Vivienne, coaxing her up onto the deck.

To Vivienne’s surprise, it was morning. She had lost track of the passage of time in the darkened hold. The sky was still overcast, though the clouds had the smooth patina of a pewter platter, and the wind was light. There was a promise of rain, but for the moment there was none. The sea still churned, though she could not see the silhouette of land in any direction.

Rosamunde must have sensed her distress at that. “It is safer to be away from the rocks and shoals of an unfamiliar shore during a storm,” she said in a consoling tone, then smiled ruefully. Vivienne could see shadows beneath her aunt’s eyes, which were no surprise given the night they had experienced, though the faint lines of age on Rosamunde’s face revealed in this light shocked Vivienne.

Rosamunde had always seemed so young and vital, though now Vivienne realized that her aunt must be some thirty summers her senior. Age seemed to have settled suddenly upon Rosamunde’s features.

Rosamunde smiled ruefully. “Though I did not expect to be blown quite this far out to sea.”

“Where are we?”

“I am not entirely certain,” Rosamunde said, more untroubled than Vivienne could possibly be. “The North Sea is vast. We can chart a course after seeing the stars this night.”

Vivienne cast a glance at the clouds above. “What if they are obscured?”

“Then we shall wait until we can see them.” Rosamunde granted Vivienne a keen glance. “You do understand that it is better to be far from the shore, do you not?”

“I suppose there is sense in that.”

Rosamunde slipped an arm around Vivienne’s shoulders. “You must have been thinking of your parents last night, and their unfortunate demise. Recognize that I know the seas better than most who ply their trade upon them. I have survived a thousand storms, many far worse than what we endured last night, and I will survive a thousand more.” The gleam of determination in Rosamunde’s eyes persuaded Vivienne of the truth of that, as little else might have done.

She stood at the rail beside her aunt, soothed despite herself by the rhythm of the sea’s undulation. She was exhausted in truth, perhaps more so than Rosamunde might have been.

“I had thought I might find you abed with Tynan’s prisoner,” Rosamunde mused finally.

Vivienne shrugged. “As perhaps, did I.” She did not precisely know why Erik had spurned her. Vivienne suspected that there was a deeper root to his rejection than exhaustion, that he still did not trust her, and that given his choice, he would have left her at Ravensmuir.

So dejected was she by that possibility that she wondered whether her quest was doomed to failure. She had already promised her all to him, she had told him the truth, but apparently to no avail. The man had too many secrets for her to be certain.

On impulse, she pulled Erik’s dagger from her belt and offered it to Rosamunde. “What can you tell me of this blade? It has an inscription upon it.”

Rosamunde took the dagger and turned it in her hands, studying the hilt with care before she pulled the blade from the scabbard. The stone in the hilt seemed to command most of her interest, and she turned it in the light with apparent fascination.

“It is his?” she asked, though her tone indicated that she had concluded as much.

“A family heirloom.”

“Of course.” Rosamunde indicated the gem. “This is an old sapphire, for it has been cut with a remarkable ingenuity that could not be copied in our times. Did you note the inscription?”

“ABRAXAS?”

Rosamunde nodded. “Said to be the name of God, though there are many such names, most notably JHVH for Jehovah. This is a Greek word, claimed to be a charm for protection by many.” She glanced up. “The Greek letters that compose the word ABRAXAS have a sum of 365, which is said to be a mark of the potency of the word.”

“That is the number of days in a year,” Vivienne said, thinking of her handfast.

Rosamunde nodded again. “And the number of eons in God’s creation, the number of ranks of angels, the number of bones said to be in the human body.” She smiled. “It is said to be a strong number, represented time and again in the world shaped by God’s hands.” She shrugged. “Or it might merely be a number.” She tapped the stone again. “This gem was carved at least a thousand years ago, and has been reset time and again for its value.”

“Then it is older than the blade?”

“Of course. His family has had some wealth in their time, if they could afford to not only hold such a gem but to keep it.” Rosamunde smiled as she watched the light play in the gem. “But then, a sapphire is rumored to be a noble gem, suitable for kings and queens, one that can reputedly break the stoutest iron fetters.”

Her smile broadened when Vivienne said nothing. “How unfortunate that he did not hold it while in Ravensmuir’s dungeon, for he would have had no need of your aid then.”

Vivienne did not smile at that.

Rosamunde returned her attention to the blade. “And a sapphire is said to give great joy to any who gazes into it, though I would wager that greater joy is felt by one who possesses it.” She glanced up, her expression assessing. “I would grant a good price for this weapon.”

Vivienne was horrified. “No! I cannot sell it! It is not mine to surrender to another.”

“Yet it is in your possession.”

“Erik granted it to me in trust. It is rightfully his, all the same, for it is a legacy from his father.”

“Ah.” Rosamunde studied Vivienne, her gaze perceptive. “You think that you love this man,” she said, her amusement evident.

Vivienne bristled. “It would be no jest if I did.”

Rosamunde shook her head and gazed across the sea for a moment, then looked back at Vivienne. She returned the dagger. “You are young to be so certain of such matters, but then, perhaps you are certain because you are young.”

“What is that to mean?”

Rosamunde did not answer, merely granted Vivienne a piercing glance. “What you must resolve, Vivienne, is whether you love the tale of him or the truth of him. A man’s story is not his sum, and we both know well enough that you have a fondness for tales.”

“I know the difference between tales and truth,” Vivienne said with some pride. Rosamunde did not appear to be convinced, but she did not care. “It is of little import though.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because he loves another woman.” A slow drizzle of rain began then, enveloping the two women and the ship in a silvery mist. It was chilly, and Vivienne shivered slightly, though she was not yet prepared to leave her aunt’s side.

She chose her words with care, for if any soul knew the answer to her woes, it was Rosamunde. “Do you know a means to make a man love a woman, Rosamunde? Surely there is a way to encourage him to see what truth is before his own eyes?”

Rosamunde laughed at the very notion. “There is no philter to make a man love you, Vivienne, at least not one that I know. Do you not see the evidence of my ignorance all around you?” She indicated the ship and its cargo with a disparaging gesture.

“I thought you loved your life at sea.”

“I loved a man more, and I surrendered all that I was and all that I desired as evidence of that love.” Rosamunde sobered as she spoke. “But my regard was not returned. He felt compelled to choose between me and his property. It was a simple matter for him to chose a pile of stones over whatever merit I might possess. That would be a humbling lesson for any woman, though it was perhaps a harsher one for me.” Rosamunde seemed to note Vivienne’s disappointment, for she laid a consoling hand upon her niece’s shoulder. “If you wish for a man to desire you, however, that is readily achieved.”

“How?” Vivienne felt a sudden measure of hope. Surely Erik would have greater regard for her if she did bear his son? “Is there a potion for that?”

Rosamunde smiled sadly. “It is no sorcery, Vivienne. To compel a man to desire you, you have only to desire him.” She shrugged. “Whether that will sate you, if is his love that you desire in truth, is another matter altogether.”

Vivienne was dismayed to see her vibrant aunt look so unhappy. “Elizabeth says that mention of your name infuriates Uncle Tynan. She suspects that he loves you.”

Rosamunde’s smile turned wry. “Then he has an uncommon way of showing as much.” She turned away then, her manner purposeful. “You are welcome to use my cabin this day and this night, for I will not sleep until our course is clear. Lock the portal and do whatsoever you will.” She cast a piercing glance over her shoulder. “I will plead ignorance of your deeds to Alexander, to be certain. You are old enough and clever enough to make your own choices, for it is you who will have to live with the consequences.”

Vivienne paid the warning no heed, but merely thanked her aunt. She was certain that a son would persuade Erik to at least harbor affection for her.

And there was but one way to create that son.

* * *

Vivienne found Erik standing with Ruari while the older man heaved his very innards over the side of the ship. The wind had become colder, the rain grew in intensity, and Ruari looked grim indeed. He still held fast to his saddlebag, though Vivienne supposed it must hold the last of his possessions.

She halted beside them just as the older man bent over the rail once more. Erik spared her no more than a glance.

“How ill is he?” she asked, guessing that she would have to begin any discussion they had.

“Ill enough to ensure his silence,” Erik said with wry humor, his gaze lingering upon Vivienne when she smiled slightly.

“Do you feel better or worse, Ruari?” she asked with concern. “The storm subsides and the sea grows more steady with every moment.”

“Even at its most calm, it is too much for me!” Ruari wailed, and gripped the rail. He breathed heavily and his face was yet pale, but he seemed better than he had been before.

“There is cheese and bread and some ale below,” Vivienne suggested. “A piece of bread might improve your state.”

Ruari moaned at the very prospect and coughed anew, although he conjured very little.

“You have not eaten that much of late,” Erik said. “Surely you are empty by now.”

“I thank you for the jest,” Ruari retorted. “Perhaps you might explain the truth of it to my belly.”

“It might be better to return to the hold,” Erik suggested in his turn. “A bucket would serve you well enough now, and you would have less chance of becoming ill from the cold, as well.”

“I favor it here,” Ruari said stubbornly.

“And I do not,” Erik replied. “Yet I dare not leave you alone. Come below, Ruari. I vow to find you a bucket that suits you well.”

Ruari cast him a dark glance. “You make a jest of an old man’s discomfort.”

“I do no such thing. I but ensure your welfare as best I can. Think of the lady, if naught else. Doubtless she will be determined to remain with you, as well.”

Ruari granted Vivienne a baleful stare. “There is no need for you to linger here,” he said and she smiled.

“I fret for your welfare,” she said with all honesty. To her pleasure, Ruari’s features brightened.

“Then perhaps I might be persuaded to come below,” he said, with one last glance at the railing. He shook a finger at Erik. “It must be a large bucket, to be sure, for I will not show myself a poor guest, even upon a ship.”

“Ah, so you are smitten with Rosamunde,” Erik teased, to Vivienne’s surprise. “I knew you merely had to meet a woman sufficiently bold to capture your affection for all time.”

Ruari straightened and his eyes gleamed, as doubtless Erik had intended. “I but hold Rosamunde in respect, the respect due to any soul sufficiently intrepid to brave that weather to aid another.”

“I suspect ’tis more than that,” Erik said mildly.

“She is a veritable angel!” Ruari huffed, launching into a tirade as if he were fully hale once more. “She came to find me, when you lot were busy amongst yourselves. She risked life and limb to ensure my survival and I am not such a knave that I would insult such generosity by humbling myself in the hold of her ship. Why, this ship is full of fine materials, of gold and silk and relics beyond belief. I would not be so base a knave as to sully such beauty, no less to jeopardize her trade, upon that you can rely.”

“If you are sufficiently well to lecture, then you are sufficiently well to come below,” Erik replied, though he took the older man’s elbow to steady him as they made their way across the slippery deck.

Vivienne took Ruari’s other arm. Ruari was somewhat unsteady upon his feet, and he slipped once. Erik’s hand was firm beneath his elbow, though, and the older man did not fall. All the same, he seized the lip of the hold with undisguised relief.

Ruari looked suddenly up at Erik through the rain, his eyes bright. “You repay your father’s debt to me, against all expectation.”

“What nonsense do you speak?” Erik asked, his manner kindly.

“I served him well, served him without complaint for more than forty years, but on his deathbed, William Sinclair noted that he had never had the chance to repay the debt. He noted that I had never fallen sick, that I had never been wounded, that he had never had the chance to offer a courtesy to me.”

Ruari heaved a sigh and cast a rueful glance about himself. “I suppose if we had journeyed upon a ship then he might have had his chance, but always he lingered close to Blackleith.” The older man stared at Erik and almost smiled. “I thank you, lad, for showing kindness when others might have turned away. You are more than the measure of your father, upon that you can rely.”

Ruari descended the ladder then, making slow time in his unsteadiness. Vivienne’s hair whipped loose of her braid and the wind stung her face. She watched Erik, seeing that he was touched by the older man’s words.

When he gestured that she should descend the ladder next, she laid a hand upon his arm and leaned close to whisper. “Rosamunde offers her cabin, that we may strive to create your son.”

Erik looked to be shocked. “You told her of this?”

Vivienne straightened. “My aunt knows what it is to be persuaded of the merit of another’s objective, and she knows the import of having given one’s word.”

Erik looked away, then back to Vivienne. The rain made his hair look a darker hue of blond. His eyes seemed a more vibrant blue than they had before and Vivienne again sensed his vitality.

She did not doubt that he found her suggestion alluring, though she did not understand why he hesitated to accept it.

“Do you not desire that son?”

“I ask you only to consider what you do afore you do it.”

“I have already pledged a year and a day to this objective.”

He watched her still and she knew he was unpersuaded.

“Why did you bring me with you, if you did not mean to come to my bed?”

“Because your womb might already bear fruit, and you are my responsibility until we know for certain.”

It was hardly a sentiment to warm her heart. Vivienne refused to be swayed, all the same, for his gaze was too vivid for him to be as indifferent as his tone implied.

She reached out and laid a hand upon Erik’s arm, feeling him tense when she did so. She held his gaze and let her fingertips trace a circle of a caress upon his flesh. She did not know how to seduce a man, but she tried to show her enthusiasm for the deed, and used the slow stroke that he had used to awaken her passion.

Erik swallowed visibly and she thought he grit his teeth. “There is no need for this deed,” he said. “We may leave matters as they stand. If you bear a child, I will claim it; if not, you may remain with your aunt.”

“I would not rely merely upon what we have already done.” Vivienne eased closer to Erik, letting her breast rub against his forearm. Her kirtle was still wet, her skin sufficiently cold that her nipples had beaded. She slid her breasts across the muscled strength of his arm, a move which sent a tingle of desire over her own flesh, and heard him catch his breath.

“Come to my bed, Erik Sinclair.” she whispered and noted how a heat kindled in his gaze.

“I should not.”

“I am your best chance to create a son with all haste,” she murmured. Vivienne ran her fingertip across his lips, her gaze unswerving from his. She felt a tremor slide through him and shivered herself at her own bold manner. She turned then and descended the ladder, hoping against hope that he would accept her offer.

Rosamunde looked up from her place in the hold and nodded once. Vivienne was certain that her aunt would return to the deck to survey sky and sea. Meanwhile, Ruari rubbed a cloth through his wet hair and coddled a stout bucket by his side. A deeply wrought brazier smoked, filling the hold with heat even as its smoke stung Vivienne’s eyes. Many of the sailors slumbered or whittled in the hold, taking their leisure while they could.

Padraig rose from where he crouched beside the brazier, then offered Ruari a steaming cup of some concoction. Ruari sniffed tentatively before accepting the brew with a grateful smile.

Vivienne waited at the base of the ladder, fearful of what Erik would do. Would he reject her after she had been so bold? He stepped down beside her and spared only the merest glance to the other men, his gaze lingering upon Ruari. The older man waved as if to reassure him. That Erik did not hasten to Ruari’s side was all the encouragement Vivienne needed.

“I desire you,” she whispered and saw the fire light in Erik’s eyes, just as Rosamunde had foretold. She took his hand in hers, smiling at the disparity of size between the two of them, then tugged him toward Rosamunde’s chamber.

To her delight, he followed, his eyes so deep a blue that they fairly smoldered.

* * *

Erik was enchanted anew and he did not care. Vivienne’s hair was stained dark from the rain, and water glistened on her cheeks as dewdrops will on the petals of a flower. She secured the door of the chamber behind herself and leaned against it, eying him through her lashes. He was fascinated that she could look both shy and bold, both innocent and provocative, but she managed the deed with ease.

He had thought himself strong enough to leave her be for this journey, but her desire for him, even if it was feigned, was impossible to deny. Resistance to her charms was futile, when his body was already upon her side of the argument.

And indeed, he reminded himself, the damage was done. Her maidenhead was gone in truth. There was naught more to be lost in accepting her invitation, and only the chance of reward in that son.

Or so Erik told himself.

Rosamunde’s chamber was simple in structure, a mere cabin secured from the rest of the hold. The walls were curved and wrought of wood—as was all of the ship—and its entirety rocked in a soothing manner. A pair of lanterns were secured to the wall at the far end, the flames well away from the wall and the receptacle for the oil too small to cause much risk of fire if spilled. Erik could hear the rain drumming steadily on the deck overhead, which only made the room seem like more of a cozy haven.

There was little in the chamber, save a bed built into the frame of the ship. The lip upon it was sufficiently large that one would not be cast out of it in the roughest sea. The bed was large enough to accommodate two persons, though one of Erik’s height would have to curl up to fit.

The mattress was thick and clearly filled with down, an indulgence that spoke of Rosamunde’s love of luxury. Dozens of pelts were piled on the bed, their silky furs a marvelous jumble of hues. Erik could not identify the animals that must have been once been adorned with several of them, for no wolf or squirrel had ever been graced with such stripes and spots.

Bed linens of velvet and silk were folded at one end, drapes of finely woven wool could be drawn to make another barrier against the hold, and pillows of all shapes and sizes spilled from the bed to the floor. They stood in silence and stared at this marvel of a bed, while Erik imagined what they might do upon it. Indeed, the very air seemed to steam with the heat of his desire.

But he would wait for the lady to invite him between her thighs once more. That she hesitated so quickly after her bold invitation made him doubt that she truly did desire him. There would be no charge against him later that he had claimed her against her will.

Erik would wait, if it nigh killed him.

A rap at the door made them both jump, then Vivienne unfastened the latch. Rosamunde stood there, a knowing smile curving her lips. She offered a steaming bucket of water and a large irregularly shaped golden ball. It seemed to be porous.

“A sponge,” she said, noting Erik’s puzzlement. “And water to bathe. There is attar of roses in the drawer beneath the bed, if you desire scent, and honey, as well, if you desire enticement.”

Honey?

Erik took the bucket, looking into the depths of the steaming water as he considered what could be done with honey. Vivienne took the sponge. She plunged it into the water, then squeezed it out, loosing a cascade of water. She laughed then and repeated her deed, clearly as unfamiliar with this marvel as he.

Rosamunde smiled, mischief making her eyes sparkle. “I shall trouble you only with food,” she said, then winked and pulled the portal closed once more.

Vivienne took a deep breath that made her breasts swell, then glanced up at Erik. An echo of Rosamunde’s mischief danced in her eyes.

“Honey,” she repeated, then smiled wickedly. “Though I should like to bathe before such enticement.” Then she turned the latch to lock the door.

Erik eased the bucket into a brace he had spotted on the floor, then faced Vivienne once more. She regarded him with a smile that warmed him to his toes and before he could speak, she raised a hand to the clasp of her cloak.

“You have always led me to passion,” she whispered. “Now, I would similarly coax you.” She let her cloak drop to the floor, her gaze unswerving. Erik knew that he had no need of coaxing, for his body was fully prepared already, but he let Vivienne set the pace. She planted a fingertip in the middle of his chest. “You have but to stand and watch. I will do the rest.”

Erik realized then that Vivienne meant to disrobe before him and his mouth went dry. He had no need of honey, no need of more than the gleam in Vivienne’s eyes, the inviting smile that curved her lips.

He stood still with an effort, and watched her shed her garb with frustrating leisure.

She unfastened the lace at one side of her kirtle, taking a cursed amount of time to ease it free. She spared him a smile, then unfastened the one on the opposite side, tugging the lace from each eyelet with tantalizing deliberation. When the kirtle was loosed, she lifted the hem in slow increments, revealing the shadow of her ankles through her chemise, then her finely curved calves.

The woman was fairly wrought to tempt him, of this Erik was certain. He clenched his fists and watched.

After easing the garment ever higher with frustrating slowness, finally, Vivienne lifted the green kirtle over her head and cast it aside. Erik could see her rosy nipples through the fine linen of her chemise, as well as their pert peaks, and the auburn shadow of the hair at the top of her thighs. Her curves were no more than tempting shadows spied through the cloth.

Erik made to unlace his own jerkin, but Vivienne seized his hands to halt him. “Let me,” she whispered, her eyes dark with a desire that weakened his knees. She kissed his knuckles, each one in turn, lavishing attention upon them with her soft lips. She planted a kiss on each of his palms, her tongue flicking against his skin unexpectedly.

“Vivienne,” he fairly growled, but she did not hasten. Indeed, the tip of her tongue darted between his fingers and he caught his breath at the vigor of his response.

Perhaps she did come from a lineage of sorcerers, for his desire for her seemed never to be sated. Indeed, it only grew more potent each time they met abed, only grew stronger with each taste.

Vivienne smiled and stepped away from him, then worked the lace of her chemise loose with that same deliberation. Erik swallowed, transfixed as every increment of soft flesh was revealed. She unfastened the myriad buttons on the sleeves with painfully slowness. The chemise finally fell to the floor in its turn, piling around her ankles like a cloud beneath an angel’s feet.

Vivienne stepped gracefully out of the cloth, then shook it out, hanging it upon a hook with more care than he thought the matter deserved. She had to reach for that hook, though, stretching out one leg behind herself and pointing one toe. He admired the curve of her buttocks and the graceful line of her back. He thought momentarily about seizing her about her narrow waist and ending this torment, but then she cast him such a smile that he abandoned the notion.

She was savoring this seduction and he was not enough of a cur to deny it to her.

Vivienne retrieved her kirtle and cloak, hanging them in their turn and offering him such a lingering view of her buttocks that Erik guessed that she felt the weight of his gaze upon her. He admired the smooth strength of her legs, as his desire for her was urged to fever pitch.

She granted him a coy smile as she began to loose her hair. She stood before him, clad only in her stockings, garters and boots, and untied the lace at the end of her braid. As usual, the braid held but a third of her hair captive in truth, the rest having escaped its bonds earlier to curl around her face.

He could not help but admire her, and did not try to hide his awe of her beauty. Vivienne’s smile broadened, and for once, Erik did not mind that his thoughts could be so readily discerned by another. Vivienne leaned her head back and shook out her hair, her eyes closed, and he watched hungrily.

He leaned forward and planted a kiss in the hollow of her throat. She gasped and he claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss, his hand curving around the back of her waist. When he raised his hand to cup her face, her pulse skipped beneath his hand in a most enticing manner.

He released her and stepped back, well content to have put that flush upon her cheeks and that sparkle in her eyes.

Indeed, these unfamiliar chausses showed themselves to have a marked disadvantage over his customary garb. There was little room within them for his enthusiastic response to Vivienne and he yearned anew for the comfort of his loose chemise and belted length of tartan.

Vivienne reached for the lace of his jerkin then. She spared him a glance through her lashes, her smile provocative. She was flushed, though, more maidenly than she would probably would have preferred, though Erik found the contrast most alluring.

She worked the lace loose, one hole at a time, then pulled it free and cast it aside. She slid her hands beneath the boiled leather shell, fanning her fingers as she ran her hands over his chest. He ducked his head, unable to resist the chance to kiss her, but she evaded his lips and kissed the hollow of his throat instead.

The jerkin was followed by his chemise, which was worked loose in teasing increments. She playfully pushed him on to the bed then, and straddled one of his legs as she tugged off his boot. Her buttocks were on his thigh, the ripe curve of her hips tempting his hands. He caught her around the waist and pulled her back into his lap, stealing another thorough kiss before she escaped his embrace once more.

She was breathless when she rapped him on the nose with a scolding fingertip, and her eyes glittered. “You are to be seduced, not to do the seducing,” she said.

“But I am seduced already,” he argued. “Your quest is complete.”

“It has only just begun,” she retorted, then squirmed in his lap so that she could not have missed the sign of his enthusiasm. She got to her feet again though, and straddled his other leg, her hands locking on his second boot.

Once again, Erik did not obey instructions. He caught her around the waist, liking that his hands fairly locked around her, and the roll of the ship worked in his favor. Vivienne tumbled into his lap. Erik caught her nape in his hand and kept his other arm locked around her waist as he kissed her fully. She arched against him, her tongue dancing with his, her fingers spearing into his hair as they rolled across the bed together.

He loved that she was not shy, that she did not withhold her passion from him. He loved that she responded so ardently to his caress, that she clearly savored their lovemaking as much as he.

Vivienne’s eyes sparkled with laughter when she broke their kiss. She sprawled atop Erik, her hands braced upon his shoulders. “What a soft bed,” she murmured. “We shall sleep well here.”

“We may not sleep at all,” Erik replied, then rolled her beneath him. He kissed her fully once more, and she was quick to respond to his caress. She was flushed and smiling when he lifted his head, though still she shook a finger at him.

“You were not to do anything,” she protested.

Erik tugged off one of her boots then claimed her ankle, locking one hand around it. He bent to untie her garters with his teeth. Vivienne gasped when his thumb moved in a slow circle against her ankle bone and she moaned with pleasure when he kissed behind her knees. It took some time to be rid of both of her garters and stockings, though the lady did not complain.

He had only a heartbeat’s warning, a mere glimpse of the mischief dancing in her eyes, before she bent to untie the lace of his chausses with her teeth. He feared then that he would tear the cloth, that the chausses from the Earl of Sutherland would not be able to contain him. That Vivienne caressed him though the cloth, teasing him with her fingertips, nigh drove him mad with desire.

He laid back and grit his teeth, letting her do what she would so that he could surprise her when she was done. She tormented him, echoing his gesture by kissing behind his knees as she eased the chausses away. No sooner were they dispatched to the floor than Erik reached for her, but she was already upon her feet.

She opened the drawer beneath the bed, biting her lip in an endearing expression of concentration as she looked through the drawer’s contents. She wrinkled her nose at the label on the first bottle she lifted, put it back and lifted out another. She removed the stopper and the chamber smelled of roses in bloom. Vivienne poured a healthy quantity of the scent into the steaming water and Erik protested.

“I shall smell as if I have been to a brothel!”

“Who shall smell you, save me?”

“Ruari, for one.”

“But he of all men will know that you could not have been to a brothel.” She plunged the sponge into the water, then wrung it out, granting Erik a fine view of those buttocks once again. “And he of all men knows your need for a son. Will he not think the scent of roses a small price to pay?” She propped a hand on her hip as she regarded him and the light of the lanterns turned her flesh to the hue of a sunrise. “After all, it smells finer than either of us do already.”

“That is true enough.”

“And do you truly care what Ruari thinks of your deeds this day?”

Erik had to admit that he did not. He had no need to say as much, for his thoughts were not so secret now that his chausses were shed.

Vivienne’s eyes gleamed with purpose, then she returned to kneel on the bed. She ran the sponge down his chest, making a dripping course of warm water, then caressed his erection with it. It was soft and tickled slightly, her fingers were warm, her stroke resolute. Erik pulled away, certain he would spill his seed too soon.

“Do you not wish to be washed?” she asked.

“I could do it more quickly myself,” he said, hearing the strain in his voice. She closed her hand around him, even with the sponge, and moved up and down the length of him. Erik was certain he would not be able to endure much of this attention.

Then Vivienne leaned over him, her hair spilling around him, and kissed his jaw. She touched him with increasing surety, kissing him finally on the earlobe. “You pleased me there with your tongue,” she whispered into his ear. “Time ‘tis for me to return pleasure in kind.”

Before he could protest, she had slid down his chest and pressed her lips to his erection. Erik fell back on the bed and groaned aloud as he realized he would be unable to halt her amorous assault.

It was then that Vivienne truly began to torment him with pleasure, Erik did not want to compel her to stop. She met him with a wild abandon new to her, committing herself to their passion with new vigor. He was beguiled, he was enchanted, he was lost in her allure.

He succumbed to the moment, powerless to do otherwise.

* * *

It was long before they slumbered, sated, their limbs entwined. Erik felt a tremendous languor and his eyes drifted closed of their own accord. He pulled the furs over them both, welcoming Vivienne’s soft heat against his side.

She nestled closer and placed her lips against Erik’s ear. He thought that she meant to kiss him and he smiled despite himself at the prospect.

“I love you,” she murmured instead. She spoke so sleepily that she might have been unaware that the words had crossed her lips.

But Erik’s eyes flew open and sleep proved impossible for him after that. He looked at her, incredulous, but she drifted into sleep. He frowned at the timbered walls of the cabin, listening to the rain and the echo of those three words in his thoughts.

Did Vivienne lie to further ensnare him?

Or did he owe this lady far more than he had offered her thus far? Erik could not be certain, though the question plagued him all the night long.

With three murmured words, Vivienne had changed all.

Chapter Fourteen

Something was amiss.

Vivienne did not know what it was, but she awakened alone in that chamber on the morning afterward. She climbed to the deck that first morning in search of Erik, and found the ship surrounded by dense white fog. The sails hung damply from the masts and the sea was as still as a mirror. A sailor rang a bell at steady intervals, clearly at Rosamunde’s command, but there was not so much as a breath of wind, let alone any hint of another soul.

They might have sailed off the edge of the world. Worse, Erik seemed determined to avoid her. Each time she reached his side, he departed with haste, barely sparing her a glance.

Erik appeared to take pains to avoid Vivienne, which was no small feat on a ship of this size. She felt bereft without his touch, without the merest sign of affection from him, and she wondered at the import of his manner.

What had she done?

Vivienne feared that the change in his manner had less to do with her and more to do with the prospect of his returning home. Doubtless the memory of Beatrice was stronger for him. Vivienne imagined that Erik turned away because he refused to taint the love he had pledged to the mother of his two beloved daughters.

This was not the reward granted to the stalwart lover in all the tales that Vivienne knew! They had made a handfast and she, for one, did not intend to forget as much.

Rosamunde shrugged off the weather and the sailors seemed to take it in stride. By the second day, several of the seamen were muttering, and by the third, there was a distinct hum of discontent.

The weather did not stir, and Erik took to pacing the deck. Doubtless, he was anxious to see matters resolved at Blackleith.

Worse, Rosamunde could not find her lodestone, though she swore that she always kept it in the same locale. None of the men on the ship confessed to moving it, and Rosamunde hunted for it in increasingly foul temper.

She found it, on the fifth day, precisely where it should have been all along.

The lodestone, though, was useless. It seemed charmed. Vivienne watched in amazement as Rosamunde held it aloft and it spun ceaselessly in a circle. The stone was unable to find true north.

The sailors began to whisper of sorcery and, for once, Ruari held his tongue. Erik paced with greater vigor, his uneven stride echoing through the deck long into the night.

No sooner had the lodestone been found than Rosamunde could not find her ledger. Unwilling to rely upon the observations of other seaman, she had made a compilation of her own considerable experience, noting the direction of winds in certain locales and sketching the shape of the land. She had journeyed often between Ravensmuir and Sicily, and the ledger contained the sum of her own observations, the better that she might orient herself after a storm such as the one they had experienced.

But the ledger was not to be found. Again, no man on the crew admitted to touching it, much less moving it from its secured place in Rosamunde’s cabin. Ruari helped Rosamunde search the entire ship for it, and that with dogged persistence, but to no avail.

On the eighth day, the ledger appeared in precisely the spot it should have occupied all along.

All notes regarding the North Sea, however, had been removed.

No tempest had ever raged to match Rosamunde’s fury at this development. Even Padraig, ever bold in her presence, clearly avoided her for that day. Rosamunde tore through every corner of that ship, she had cartons unpacked and barrels overturned, she dumped the drawers in her cabin, she declared it within her rights to examine every man’s possessions. She interrogated every living soul on that ship.

All to no avail.

Vivienne began to fear that they would never see land again.

* * *

Of course, Rosamunde missed one small fey individual in her interrogation. The spriggan Darg knew where the ledger pages were, for she had hidden them. She had also charmed the lodestone. That spriggan laughed heartily over the success of her deed.

It was Erik who heard the faint echo of fairy laughter, Erik who knew better than to believe in matters unseen, Erik who could not fathom who was bold enough to snicker at Rosamunde’s expense. He heard the echo of merriment in the midst of the night, when all others slumbered, when he alone paced the deck.

He feared that he lost his wits, and in that surrendered the last of his meager assets.

On the tenth morning, a distraught Rosamunde summoned them all to her chamber. Erik ensured that there was distance between himself and Vivienne. She looked at him with confusion, uncertain at his reserved manner.

Erik certainly did not wish to explain himself. Proximity to Vivienne would scatter his thoughts, would ensure lust decimated his ability to fairly consider all that he knew. He dared not risk even a fleeting touch. He wished there was a way to be certain now whether his seed had taken root within her, for then his obligations would be clear -- if not the truth.

Vivienne had changed her garb, probably due to a gift from Rosamunde and Erik did not doubt that it was intended to tempt him. It nigh did so. The ochre kirtle was fitted to accent her considerable curves and perhaps displayed them more boldly than her previous kirtle had done. Its hems and cuffs were rich with embroidery in hues of blue and green, and her new chemise appeared to be a saffron yellow. Her hair was combed out over her shoulders, its auburn curls glinting in the cabin’s light.

Desire lit in Erik’s belly like a flame and he was compelled to look away. He heard again her sleepy pledge of love and his innards churned.

“I do not know what to do,” Rosamunde confessed to the small group gathered in her chamber. “Without my ledger, I cannot be certain of our locale. Without knowing our locale, I cannot chart a course. We cannot remain adrift forever and we dare not alight upon unfriendly shores.”

“Are there so many unfriendly ports as that?” Erik asked, and won a hard look for his query.

“I have pursued a dangerous trade for decades,” Rosamunde said shortly. “There are thus more unfriendly ports than amiable ones, at least for me.” She paced the chamber in agitation. “Never has something like this happened to me,” she muttered, her vexation more than clear. “Some fool plays a jest upon me, some fool who will pay dearly for such audacity.”

“Could one of your enemies be hidden upon this ship?” Erik asked.

“Where?” Rosamunde flung out her hands. “There is no place to hide!”

But Erik was not so certain of that, given what he had learned of treachery himself. “Could one of your men have been tempted to serve another, with coin or other reward?”

Rosamunde mused. “It is possible, though unlikely. Padraig and I are known to both reward our men well and to ensure that any unpaid debts are rendered in full.”

“And then some,” Padraig amended, looking grim. “There are few who would dare to deceive us in these days.”

Rosamunde and Padraig exchanged a glance and Erik guessed that they had seen a good measure of vengeance served in their time.

He, for one, would not have defied them. Indeed, he knew better than to ask for details and chose to take them at their word.

Vivienne bit her lip, as if knowing her suggestion would be unwelcome. “Perhaps the spriggan Darg accompanied us. She alone holds a grudge against you.”

“And an unjust one at that!” Rosamunde’s eyes flashed. “I told Elizabeth to command her fairy. I cannot return the hoard to Ravensmuir, not now, so there is no wager to be made.”

“But what of your ring?” Erik asked, noting Rosamunde’s barren finger. “The silver ring that the spriggan demanded as her due? Surely if you have surrendered it to her, this fairy has no cause for complaint?”

Rosamunde’s eyes narrowed but before she could reply, Vivienne turned upon Erik in astonishment. “You acknowledge the existence of the spriggan?”

Erik had felt the spriggan, when she had been tangled in the seaweed, and he was fairly certain of the source of the malicious laughter he had heard since. He was not prepared to admit as much openly, however, so ignored Vivienne’s query.

Rosamunde, to his surprise, flushed like a maiden and dropped her gaze. “The ring is gone. I hold it no longer.”

“But if you surrendered it to the spriggan, then there should remain no issue,” Erik said carefully.

Ruari snorted. “Fairies are a capricious lot. There is naught to say that this Darg would stand by her wager even if it was accepted immediately, let alone days after it was made.”

But Erik was intrigued by Rosamunde’s discomfiture.

“It was not mine to surrender,” she said gruffly, her gaze flicking as if she would look anywhere rather than meet the gazes of the others. “It is returned to its rightful owner, and thus beyond the reach of both myself and this spriggan.”

Erik heard a small scream, seemingly wrought of frustration. He considered that Darg might argue the rightful ownership of that ring.

“Which means,” he concluded, “that there is no way to sate the spriggan for her terms cannot be met.” A weight landed on his shoulder then and he heard a small cackle close to his ear. It seemed that the spriggan chattered agreement, though he could not fully discern her words.

Perhaps she spoke another language than the ones he knew.

“The ring is at Ravensmuir,” Rosamunde admitted. “For it is Ravensmuir’s ring and rightly belongs there.”

“Why did you leave it there?” Padraig demanded. “We could be lost at sea for all time, if you have not the ring with which to wager!”

Rosamunde’s cheeks stayed ruddy and Erik guessed that she told but half the tale. “I thought this spriggan would remain with the ring, and we would be readily rid of her.”

Padraig shook his head and rubbed his brow. “But instead we are doomed, doomed to be lost at sea for the sprite cannot have her due.” He granted Rosamunde a stern glance. “Unless you can make another wager that will please the demon.”

Rosamunde pursed her lips. She paced, she frowned, she folded her arms across her chest. She surveyed the chamber with a bright eye, clearly seeking some sign that the spriggan was amongst them.

Erik felt that slight weight upon his shoulder ease closer to his neck. He dared not move, for he knew not what the creature meant to do. A tiny claw clutched at his earlobe, then words resonated in his ear. They were words not carried on anything so mortal as a breath, but words he heard all the same.

When he realized their import, he repeated them aloud.

“Debts must be paid or they stay due, the fey have far less patience than you. The ring of kings is my sole demand, and I will have it from any hand. Be Rosamunde dead or alive, still she will render my prize.”

“So, you would talk in verse, lad?” Ruari asked in evident surprise. “What madness is this? You have no need for this ring.”

Erik felt the back of his neck heat. “It is the spriggan. I can hear her and these words are her own. I but repeat them.”

Vivienne’s lips parted with awe. “You can even hear the spriggan?”

“Evidently so.” Erik felt no small measure of embarrassment to be proven so wrong and before the company as well. The little claw tugged at his earlobe, then the whisper sounded again.

“Debts can be rendered in many a way, though the price grows higher with each day. Tell her then to make me an offer: I may be fey but I will barter.”

Erik repeated this as well and the company exchanged glances. Rosamunde sighed and stared at her boots for a long moment before she spoke. “If I return to Ravensmuir, which would be a breach of my own pledge to never cross that threshold again -”

“A pledge you have already willingly broken,” Padraig interjected, earning a dark glance for his trouble. Rosamunde folded her arms across her chest, looking fully discontent with what she meant to say.

“If I so do, and if I pledge to try to retrieve the ring while there, will the spriggan aid us?” she asked, her manner revealing her own opinion of this course. “There is no way to claim the ring while we are at sea.”

All looked expectantly at Erik, but he could hear no whisper. The grip upon his ear was gone, as seemingly was the weight upon his shoulder. He turned, looking about himself for some hint that the spriggan still remained in their company. He could not see Darg, nor could he hear any sound from her.

But he saw the ledger, fat with parchment once again. “Are your observations returned?”

Rosamunde pivoted, gasped, and fairly fell upon the ledger, her features lighting as she turned the pages within it. “They are all returned!” she said with amazement. “And as neatly as if they had never been gone.”

The bell rang with greater vigor from the deck and the sailors above gave a shout. “The fog clears!” one shouted. “It blows away with uncommon speed! Come and see!”

Padraig hastened out of the chamber, then the ladder creaked as he climbed to the deck. “Ha!” he shouted, only half out the hatch. “He speaks the truth! I can see the blue of the sky.”

Rosamunde laughed aloud. She clutched the book in both hands and raised it high. “We sail for Scotland!” she cried with evident delight. “We said this very day, first for Helmsdale and thence to Ravensmuir.”

Padraig ducked his head back into the hold and granted Rosamunde a grim glance before he met Erik’s gaze. “And you may tell your fairy that I shall ensure that there is no breach of this pledge.”

“You?” Rosamunde asked with a smile. “Your word is worth precious little.”

“I may have a fondness for the sea, but not to the point of being lost upon it,” Padraig retorted. “Indeed, I lose my taste for such adventures. I will complete this journey with you, Rosamunde, for I have agreed as much, and this despite the fact that my pledge is worth so little. But then I yearn for the sun of Sicily. I will sail forth from that isle no more.”

He climbed fully to the deck then, leaving Rosamunde astonished behind him. She pursued him but a moment later. Ruari turned a merry eye upon Erik and Vivienne eased closer to his side, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

“So the spriggan has chosen you,” Ruari said with no small measure of amusement.

“Darg takes our side in persuading you of matters unseen,” Vivienne added.

“It was but a verse or two,” Erik said gruffly, as if they made too much of too little, and they laughed at his manner.

Ruari shook a finger at him. “You cannot fight the truth, lad, that much is certain. If you deny what is evident to all, then it shall be made evident to you, in one way or another.”

“And you cannot trick a fairy,” Vivienne added. “Even Rosamunde has learned as much.”

“He probably saw the fairy all along,” Ruari teased, then granted Vivienne a knowing glance. “But meant to share your bed for as many nights as possible. After all, you were determined to show him the power of the unseen.”

Vivienne opened her mouth, then closed it again, her wondrous eyes filled with shadows when she glanced at Erik once more. Perhaps Ruari did not know that Erik and Vivienne did not meet abed any longer. Erik did not care. With that comment, with the lady’s disappointment, the moment had lost its camaraderie for him.

“Only a knave would so inconvenience an entire company for his own pleasure,” he said and turned away from Vivienne.

Only a knave despoiled a maiden and did not honorably wed her. It seemed that Erik not only heard the voice of the spriggan but that of his father, as well.

Perhaps it was not so surprising that both fairy and father so vehemently agreed.

* * *

Darg appeared to have considerable influence with the weather. The winds changed as soon as Rosamunde struck her wager with the spriggan, and the ship was fairly driven back toward Scotland’s coast. They drew near the coast near the Firth of Forth and the entire crew cheered as one.

The ship was turned north with many hands lending their weight to the rudder. They made uncommon speed and Vivienne knew that soon Erik would see his home again. He took to standing at the rail, pointing out this landmark and another to Ruari, his excitement a tangible thing.

Erik did not so much as glance her way, though Vivienne awakened more than once in the night in the ship’s hold to find his heat beside her. He did not touch her, much less caress her, but the bite of the wind was cold and Vivienne was glad of his heat.

She hoped she might gain more from him in time. She prayed that she bore his son already.

But when Vivienne learned for certain, it was not the truth she wished it to learn. On a night that the moon was just past full and riding high in a clear sky, she awakened in the midst of night to a warm trickle on her thighs. She eased aside the coverlets and let the moonlight fall upon her flesh. The red blood there made her heart plummet to her very toes. There could not longer be any doubt.

She had failed to conceive Erik’s son.

Vivienne’s tears fell then at her failure, for she had been so certain that their efforts would see the matter quickly resolved.

She cleaned herself with haste and bound a length of linen around herself, then wrapped her cloak more tightly about herself. Erik still breathed with deep regularity and she was loathe to awaken him with such tidings. She eased closer to his heat, though, feeling the cold more keenly in her disappointment. She willed herself back to sleep, resolving to tell him the truth in the morning.

A resolve grew within her in the darkness. Vivienne was far from prepared to abandon this quest. There were twelve more moons in their handfast, and that meant twelve more chances to conceive a son.

The wager was not lost as yet.

* * *

Erik had felt Vivienne stir in the night. He had heard her gasp of surprise and had watched through his lashes as she discovered the blood upon her thigh. He knew the import of that blood and was disappointed that there was no lingering bond between them.

He was touched by her dismay. She thought herself unobserved and further, her response seemed to come from her very core. He understood then that she had truly wished to bear his son, that she felt the failure as keenly as he, that he had been a cur to doubt her. When she nestled beside him again, he felt her tears touch his shoulder.

Vivienne had not lied to him. The truth of it was inescapable. She had lied to her family, against all expectation, and she had done so to aid his quest.

In return, Erik had taken all she offered and granted her naught.

But he had naught to grant, not until he reclaimed Blackleith. No man could offer honorably for a woman in marriage without property beneath his hand, without some means of providing for her and any children they might bear. He had wronged Vivienne with his distrust, but it would only compound his error if he dishonored her now with an empty promise, with a pledge for what he could not guarantee.

Erik wanted to console Vivienne in this moment, he wanted to ease the tears from her cheeks and coax the return of her smile. He wanted to put the sparkle back into her eyes, but he dared not reveal to her that he was awake.

Indeed, it took all within him to keep his arm from tightening around her. He turned as if in sleep and touched his lips to her temple, and she burrowed her face into his chest. Her hair was spread across them, their cloaks were unfurled over them, the softness of her skin touched his own flesh in a thousand paces.

And Erik knew that they were entwined in more ways than that. He loved Vivienne, loved her impulsive nature and her confidence, loved that she was unafraid of any peril, that she would pay any price to see a just goal achieved. He loved how she opened like a blossom beneath his caress, loved how they seemed each wrought for the other. No other woman would ever touch his heart as she had done. He loved that she gave of herself unstintingly, fully confident that her gifts would be repaid in greater abundance.

He wanted to be the one to render the balance due to her.

He loved her, but he had not the right to tell her as much.

Not yet.

Erik would confess his love only in triumph. He feared that Vivienne would accept him for the offer of his love alone, even if he remained a failure.

But she deserved better than love alone. She deserved wealth and security, a home and a hearth, a husband and a future filled with promise. Erik could not offer the ending of the tale that she deserved, not on this morning, and if he never could offer it, then Vivienne would know nothing of his love for her.

He knew, however, that he would yearn for her for all his days and nights. He wanted to fulfill her maidenly dreams, he wanted to offer her those three nights of courtship and that red red rose wrought of ice. It might prove to be impossible, but Erik wanted the chance to try.

When Vivienne slept deeply again, Erik eased from her side. Praise be that Ruari had held fast to that saddlebag, for it contained the length of tartan, the yellow chemise and the sturdy leather boots in which Erik was more comfortable. He shunned the southern clothing that the Earl of Sutherland had granted to him, and dressed in his familiar garb. He retrieved his father’s blade from the tumble of Vivienne’s clothing, for he suspected he might have need of it, and shoved it into the back of his belt.

He stared down at her, watching the moonlight play upon her cheek, and committed her features to memory. He would never forget Vivienne Lammergeier, and he praised the instinct that had urged him to seek out the one woman who had spurned his brother.

He might have little to offer her in this moment, but he would not leave Vivienne without some token of him. Erik took the silver pin that had been his mother’s most prized possession, the silver pin that adorned his own cloak and had drawn Vivienne’s eye more than once, and laid it beside his lady’s hand.

Her fingers spread across the silver, then closed surely around it. She sighed in her sleep and rolled to her side, pulling the pin to her chest in her closed fist.

Erik took that small gesture as a good portent.

He reached out a fingertip and touched her cheek one last time, his heart aching when she smiled and turned her lips against his palm, her lashes barely fluttering. A tendril of her hair twined around his fingers, as if it would hold him fast by her side forever.

Vivienne sighed, her breath as light as a summer breeze, the stains of her tears yet upon her cheeks. Erik vowed to himself that he would return to her in honor or die trying.

The lady deserved no less than his all.

* * *

Erik silently roused Ruari, not allowing himself a backward glance. The older man seemed to sense his intent, for he dressed quickly and hastened to the deck behind Erik.

Ruari did not ask about Vivienne.

The coast rose ruggedly to their west, within easy proximity mist swirled in patches over the silvery sea. The fat moon sank toward the horizon and the few clouds to the east were already touched with pearly light. To Erik’s relief, Padraig kept the watch. As he anticipated, that seaman was readily bribed and an arrangement was made both swiftly and quietly.

Erik and Ruari rowed to the shore in the borrowed boat with Padraig huddled between them. None of the men spoke, and they exchanged the barest of nods when Erik and Ruari climbed out of the boat in the shallows. Padraig rowed back toward the ship with powerful strokes.

Erik strode through the water to the shore. He reveled in freedom of movement offered by his tartan, the way that his old boots with their perforations did not hold the water. His feet and his legs would be dry before they had walked a mile, while that southern garb left a man sodden all one day and the next.

Erik liked the feel of the rock beneath his soles, the shimmer of the heather, now in full bloom, across the hills. The River Helmsdale climbed before him, its every turn and leap as familiar as the lines in his own palm. He knew where to cast a lure for salmon, he knew where tiny sea pearls could be found, he knew where every ancient stone stood sentinel. He took a deep breath of the crisp cool air and felt an ease, a contentment, settle in his veins anew.

Erik was home.

He felt a new measure of hope, a new prospect of success. When last he had stood so close to Blackleith, he had been certain only of his ultimate and inevitable failure.

Vivienne had taught Erik to see promise where he had perceived there to be none. Vivienne had taught him to believe that all was possible. And now that his very sinews were healed and he was as hale as ever he would be, Erik found himself anticipating his encounter with his brother, however it might end.

Erik also found himself less persuaded that he approached his own doom. Perhaps it was folly, but that hope made it easier to turn his back upon Rosamunde’s ship and the lady who would hold his heart for all eternity, made it easier to turn his face toward Blackleith once more.

“Do you mean to go to the Earl of Sutherland’s hall from here?” Ruari asked, but Erik shook his head.

“We go to Blackleith. The Earl will not grant aid to me without the son he demanded as his terms.”

Ruari hesitated. “There is good and bad in the Earl, to be certain, but he might be amenable to a request for aid. Do not be so hasty to discard a potential ally, lad, for it is difficult indeed to find a man inclined to stand at one’s back.”

Erik shook his head again. “This battle is mine alone.”

“Nicholas might have men aplenty in his hall, for any fool can hire mercenaries.”

“I shall face him alone, and the better man will win.” Erik granted his companion a glance. “The choice to accompany me is yours, Ruari, for I would not commend you to a fool’s journey. It would be unfair to demand as much of you, after you served my father with such loyalty.”

Ruari bristled visibly, and glowered at the younger man. “You will not face this injustice without me, lad, upon that you can rely. I swore a pledge upon the gem in that Sinclair blade, and I have wits enough to know that such a pledge cannot be broken without dire repercussions. Win or lose, I match my steps to yours, to be sure.” The older man’s lips set grimly and he tightened his belt. “I owe your father no less.”

It was a sentiment Erik appreciated, though it was not the best omen for success. The two men exchanged a glance, then headed into the forest in grim silence.

* * *

Vivienne awakened alone, something cold in her hand. Erik was gone, she saw immediately, as was Ruari.

As was the saddlebag Ruari had carried.

She opened her hand and gasped to find the silver pin that Erik had worn on his cloak within her grip. She guessed then that he had abandoned her, that he had granted her this beautiful trinket as a gift.

But they had a handfast.

Vivienne dressed in haste and climbed to the deck. It was early, so early that the sky was just barely touched with morning’s light. It looked as if the weather would be fair, and the seamen were already stirring. They spoke of raising the sails, of turning south, of the prospect of a port soon.

But Vivienne grasped the rail, her gaze snared by two figures in the shallows. She knew those two male silhouettes, just as she recognized the man rowing the small boat back toward the ship. She met Padraig at the rope ladder, knowing what she had to do.

“Padraig, I beg of you, row me to the shore as well.”

That man paused on the ladder, the rope from the small boat in his hand. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face from rowing against the waves and his expression was not encouraging. “You know better than to ask as much of me,” he said gruffly, then climbed to the deck itself. “Rosamunde would feed me my own liver if I left you alone upon a deserted shore.”

“I would not be alone,” Vivienne insisted, grasping his sleeve when he would have brushed past her. “Please, Padraig, my path lies with Erik. I have need of your aid.”

That man shook his head heavily. “You cannot ask me to endanger you, Vivienne. Such a deed would betray every obligation I owe to your family.”

“But Erik and I have pledged a handfast.”

“I care nothing for such pledges.” He granted her a piercing glance and his tone softened. “He left you behind, Vivienne, do you not see the import of that?” He turned away them, clearly meaning to leave her there.

Vivienne lifted her chin. The import of that was that Erik meant to reclaim Blackleith alone, she knew it well, just as she knew that he had need of her aid to succeed. She was not certain what she could do, but she knew they were destined to be together.

Even if she had to help destiny.

“If you do not aid me, then I will persuade Rosamunde to do so,” she said, not certain she could manage any such feat. “And she will take me to Blackleith, perhaps vexing the fairy with her delay in returning to Ravensmuir.”

Padraig granted her a dark glance over his shoulder. “You will not so persuade her,” he said. “Not when I and the fairy argue the opposing side.” He shook his head and his voice softened again. “It is no easy circumstance you face here, Vivienne, though a woman of sense would accept the truth before her.” He turned his back upon her once again, striding back toward the middle of the ship.

Vivienne was not prepared to accept this circumstance. She took a deep breath and looked down, seeing then the glint of silver in her hand.

“I will pay you,” she cried with sudden vigor.

Padraig paused and turned slightly, a smile of amusement touching his lips. Indeed, his manner was slightly mocking, which only irked Vivienne. “With what? You have no coin with which to tempt me.”

“I have better than coin.” Vivienne took a deep breath and held out her hand, offering him the silver pin that Erik had just granted to her.

It was clear that Padraig recognized the pin. His eyes narrowed and his gaze looked between it and Vivienne. He swallowed then and shook his head, taking a backward step as he did so. “You cannot surrender that to me. It is your sole gift from him, of that I am certain. There are items, Vivienne, that have a value beyond their market price. You cannot grant that to me.”

“I will,” Vivienne insisted, though the words nigh stuck in her throat. “It is but a trinket and as nothing compared to being with him. I need to follow him, Padraig. This price is small.”

Padraig swore. He spat upon the deck, he glared at Vivienne, and when he spoke, he fairly growled. “Keep your treasure,” he muttered.

Vivienne feared he would deny her in truth, but he strode abruptly back past her and seized her elbow. “You had best have every item of which you have need, for we leave immediately. I would not have Rosamunde witness me at this deed.”

“Thank you, Padraig!” Vivienne said, jubilant at his agreement. She stretched up and kissed his rough cheek. “All will be well, Padraig, you will see.”

“All will be as it will be, that is all that we know for certain.” He wiped at his cheek, then aided her to climb over the rail. “Do not waste time with such foolery as gratitude,” he said gruffly when she thanked him again, but the gleam in his eyes told Vivienne that he appreciated her thanks.

She sat in the boat, willing herself to be as light as possible. She fastened the pin upon her cloak and studied the coast as Padraig rowed closer, her heart leaping when she spied the two men climbing the rocks.

“There!” she said and Padraig grunted assent.

Chapter Fifteen

“It appears that we will have a guest shortly,” Ruari said and Erik looked back over his shoulder in surprise. But his companion spoke aright: Padraig rowed toward the shore once more, a smaller familiar figure in the boat with him.

The glint of the dawn on that tangle of auburn hair only confirmed the identity of the woman who drew ever nearer. Vivienne must have been watching him, for she waved gaily as soon as Erik’s gaze landed upon her.

As if he should be gladdened to see her.

As if it had been but an oversight that he had left her behind.

Erik swore with rare vigor.

Ruari laughed, which was little consolation indeed. “There is no trouble so fearsome as that of a beauteous woman,” that man said. “Unless, of course, it is a beauteous and stubborn woman.”

Erik had no reply for that. He was too vexed with Vivienne for her pursuit. He climbed back down to the water, determined to ensure that Padraig took Vivienne back to Rosamunde’s ship, back to her family and comparative safety.

Vivienne must have anticipated his intent, however, for she climbed out of the boat before he could reach her. She stood in water past her knees and pushed Padraig and his boat back into deeper water with surprising strength.

“Halt!” Erik cried.

Vivienne cast him a defiant glance, then stepped into deeper water to give Padraig and the boat a harder shove.

Erik leapt down the last scree of rock and lunged into the shallows. “You shall not leave her here!” he roared at the cursed seaman.

“Row, Padraig, row!” Vivienne cried, evidently fully prepared to push the small boat further if necessary.

Padraig grinned as he dipped the oars into the water. The golden hoop in his ear glinted and he looked a disreputable rogue indeed. “I wish you well, for this lady has no shortage of determination,” he shouted to Erik, then began to row.

“I wish you well, Padraig, in your quest at Ravensmuir!” Vivienne shouted and waved. Padraig said naught, merely labored against the waves with determination.

“Nay!” Erik bellowed. “Come back for the lady, you wretch!”

“He will not,” Vivienne declared with fearsome certainty.

Erik knew that she was right. What was he to do? He could not abandon her alone on the shore. He could not swim to Rosamunde’s ship with Vivienne on his back, particularly if she did not wish to go there.

There was a dangerous glint in Vivienne’s eyes as she lifted her skirts and strode toward him, a glint that told Erik that the lady would accept only one solution to this dilemma. His mother’s silver pin shone where she had pinned it upon her cloak, shone as it never had while he had worn it.

“We have a handfast,” she began hotly, “and not a month of it is fulfilled as yet. You can return me to Kinfairlie in a year if we choose then to part.”

“If we survive that long,” Erik retorted. “I thought you a woman of good sense! What folly compelled you to follow me?”

“You have need of me,” Vivienne said simply, then halted several steps away from him. Her skirts swirled around her, ebbing and flowing with the waves, the embroidery on the hems shining beneath the water. Tendrils of her hair blew around her shoulders and across her face and it seemed that her freckles had become more numerous these past days. Her bright gaze was steady, her back as straight as a well-honed blade, and there was determination in every line of her being.

She was valiant and breathtaking, a Valkyrie come for his soul and one whose conquest Erik felt little urge to contest.

“I have need of no woman at my side when I walk into such peril as this,” he said, feeling he should protest her presence.

Vivienne propped her hands upon her hips and glared at him. “Perhaps you might recount for me again your reasons for seeking my hand? There must be a thousand maidens between here and Kinfairlie, yet you undertook such a journey for me alone. It seems only good sense that you would have had a reason why.”

Erik felt the back of his neck heat, for he guessed the path of this argument. “You know the answer well enough.”

“Remind me of it,” she demanded.

“Because you were the sole other person who had not been deceived by Nicholas,” he admitted, fully aware that his cause was already lost. “But you should have remained with your kin. Despite your perceptiveness, still I would not see you endangered.”

Vivienne’s sudden smile was so radiant that Erik blinked and his heart skipped a beat. “Because you are gallant in truth.”

“Not so much that...” Erik began before the lady interrupted him again.

“True enough.” Her gaze seemed suddenly more intent, so perceptive that Erik feared she could discern his every thought. “You fret for my welfare because you love me.”

Erik stared at her. He knew he should protest her claim, knew he should pretend otherwise until he could confess his desire with an honorable pledge to wed her, but the words would not rise to his lips.

Undaunted, Vivienne smiled and laid her hand over the pin he had surrendered to her. “A man’s deeds oft say more than his words,’ she said softly. “You love me as I love you, and thus our destiny is entwined forevermore. You might not have come from the realm of fairies, but you climbed through Kinfairlie’s enchanted window to win my heart all the same.”

Erik was struck dumb that she should understand him so readily. Her bold declaration should have troubled him more than it did, save that he knew she spoke the truth. He said naught, for he was glad to not be parted from her, even for the weeks it might take to reclaim Blackleith. Her presence would complicate matters but at the same time, the very sparkle of it gave him encouragement.

“You will remain out of all battles,” he decreed, ignoring her triumphant laugh. Doubtless she had guessed why he had changed the subject. “And you will not argue with my every choice, but do what you are bidden to do.”

Vivienne’s smile only broadened. “I will do whatsoever needs to be done,” she said with conviction, then spared a mischievous glance to Ruari and did a fair imitation of that man’s manner. “Upon that you can rely.”

Erik smiled despite himself. She took a step closer to him, majestic and fully persuaded of the merit of her argument. “Tell me what your eyes tell me,” she coaxed. “Tell me that you are gladdened by my presence, that you could not imagine days and nights without me at your side.” She laid her hand upon his arm and tipped her face up to his, her eyes shining and her ripe lips curved into a bold smile. “Tell me that you would have missed me in truth.”

Erik was spared the need to reply. Vivienne made to ease closer but must have slipped on something under the water. She shrieked as her feet suddenly flew out from under her.

Erik caught her just before she landed in the sea. He held her fast against his chest and turned to make for the shore. “Aye, it does a man good to rescue damsels from their own folly,” he muttered.

Vivienne laughed and kicked her feet, apparently untroubled by his gruff manner. “You lie, sir,” she teased and Erik felt himself smile.

“Perhaps your presence is not so unwelcome as that,” he acknowledged. Unable to resist temptation, he bent and kissed the smile from her lips.

He intended only a brief embrace, one that would ensure her silence, but as always, Vivienne’s passion was beguiling indeed. She kissed him back with rare fervor, with the same hunger that he felt for her, and he was keenly aware of how long he had been without her wondrous caress. That familiar heat unfolded within him and his grip tightened upon her, his treacherous body more that prepared to return the lady’s caress despite his inability to offer for her with honor.

Holding her fast in his arms made Erik realize how finely wrought his lady was, how vulnerable she could be. He recalled Beatrice’s fate, feared for his daughters and feared yet more for Vivienne. He deepened his kiss, knowing she would taste his concern and not caring in the least.

“Aye, and that is why we have journeyed so far,” Ruari shouted. “The better that you might stand in the sea, lad, and catch some ailment for which there is no cure. It would serve your brother well if you died of the ague afore you even reached his gates. Indeed, why else have we traveled all the length of Scotland, save for you two to rut in the sea?”

With some reluctance, Erik ended his embrace and strode to the shore. He set Vivienne on her feet, then discussed the best course onward with Ruari. Vivienne wrung out the length of her skirts, and appeared intent upon not slowing their pace to Blackleith.

They climbed the rocks once more just as the sun crested the horizon and began their journey inland. Erik was the only one to glance back at the sea. The sails were unfurling on Rosamunde’s ship and billowing in the wind, the vessel already moving to the south.

There was no turning back, no further source for aid. It was between himself and Nicholas, and whoever Nicholas might have summoned to his side in Erik’s absence.

* * *

It grew darker that afternoon, as slate-bellied clouds rolled across the sky and gathered ominously there. The wind came in fits and gusts and was colder than it had been earlier this day. Erik felt that he returned willingly to a nightmare. His scar seemed to burn upon his face, his flesh seemingly recalled the place where it had been so carved, and his limp felt more pronounced.

A shiver rolled over him when the crossed the boundary of Blackleith’s lands, though Erik hoped the others did not notice his response.

It was not long before the high dark thicket rose high on either side of the road, blocking out the sight of even the roiling sky. Its shadows were dark and deep; Erik’s memories of this place no less dark.

He paused at one end of the hedges that swallowed this increment of road, of this veritable tunnel wrought of vines and thorns, and swallowed.

“It was here then?” Ruari said quietly from beside him, no real question in his query.

Erik took a deep breath, fearful for a moment that he would not be able to pass this place. He recalled Vivienne upon the threshold of the labyrinth, determination gleaming in her eye. He spared her a glance to find her watching him as keenly as a sparrow watches a crumb.

She came to his side, though her touch upon his arm was fleeting. “It is a loathsome stretch of road,” she mused, peering ahead into the shadows. “As if the place itself has a recollection of an injustice served here.”

Erik knew that she had guessed the history of this place and the reason it troubled him so. He looked down the road again, trying to see it with her eyes, without his memories, and its shadows shrank somewhat. “It is but a stretch of road,” he told her tersely, not truly believing as much himself. “It can possess no memory of treachery.”

She tilted her head to regard him and he felt a surge of admiration at her resolve. He was convinced that her spirit could never be quailed, that she would stride with confidence into any situation, no matter how dire it appeared.

He fiercely wanted her to give his daughters such confidence.

“Then let us pass through it,” she said, as mildly as if they discussed the crossing of a meadow. “For there is nothing to fear upon a stretch of mere road, even if the bushes shade the way.”

She was right. Erik stepped into the darkness that consumed this length of road, Ruari upon one side and Vivienne on the other. The older man drew his blade and Erik did the same. The shadows swallowed them in a trio of steps, the shadows pressed against them, the vines seemed to whisper innuendo.

The passage seemed longer than Erik knew it to be, each step recalling some blow he had sustained. Indeed, he was besieged by vivid recollections, for he had not passed this way since his assault.

Here his horse had fallen, here the knife had touched his cheek, here he had crawled to the safety of the forest’s embrace. Here he had lain bleeding for what had seemed an eternity.

Here he had lost all awareness, certain that he would never wake again.

He relived his worst nightmare upon that stretch of road, though through it all he was keenly aware of Vivienne’s presence. She smelled of flowers and sunshine, she was a beacon of light in that treacherous passage so redolent of his past. Her step did not falter and she did not fall back to walk behind him.

There was a patina of sweat over Erik’s flesh when they reached the other side of the passage, and the sudden brightness of the sunlight made him blink. He looked back, shuddered to his very toes, and saw only a shadowed course of road behind him.

“A mere stretch of road,” Vivienne said, her gaze revealing that she knew it to be otherwise.

On impulse, Erik lifted Vivienne’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, knowing that her fortitude had seen him through that darkness.

He could only hope that he could win the chance to have her fortitude beside him for all time.

* * *

It was late afternoon of the second day when Vivienne had her first glimpse of Blackleith. They stood a good dozen paces short of the lip of the forest, underbrush as high as their waists, the trees forming a canopy overhead as glorious as that of any cathedral. Ominous clouds crowded the sun, which had already begun its descent, but its rays touched the leaves overhead, gilding them to a glorious hue.

Blackleith’s hall itself was an uncommon combination of Norman construction, local traditions and a measure of ingenuity. It certainly was not so glorious as the fortresses of the south, neither so massive as Ravensmuir nor as artfully designed as Kinfairlie, but it was doughty and of considerable size.

It had been constructed with a square base, the lower part of the walls were wrought of cut stones fitted so tightly together that the wind probably could not whistle through them. The walls were thick, the better to keep heat within the building. There was only one portal near the ground and no windows below the second story.

The stones continued to the height of two men. The walls above were made of smaller, rounder stones, stacked according to their shape and size, then sealed in place with wattle and daub.

“The large stones were hewn further south,” Ruari informed her. “Upon the lands of the Earl of Sutherland. They were hauled up the river on barges when the water was low, pulled by ropes hauled by men upon the banks.”

“But the stone changes,” Vivienne noted.

“That is stone locally gathered, and time it took to collect them, to be sure.” Ruari nodded sagely, as if he had gathered the stones himself.

“It would have been finer all wrought of the same stone,” Erik said, “but the cost became too much for me.”

“You had this built?” she asked, before she recalled that detail of Ruari’s tale.

“Such as it is.”

Vivienne heard a warning in Erik’s tone, as if he would caution her that he was not overly affluent. She did not truly care, and if he did not realize as much, then she would not deign to tell him so.

She was beginning to doubt the merit of her decision to join him. Though he had held fast to her hand in that place where he had been assaulted, though he had kissed her hand with what had seemed to be gratitude, he had then dropped her hand as if her very touch scorched his flesh. Vivienne could make no sense of Erik’s manner though she wondered yet again whether proximity to Blackleith made him recall the great love he had shared with his wife, Beatrice.

She ignored his comment and looked upon the holding he meant to regain. The roof of the hall was thick thatch, and the windows had solid wood shutters that could be latched over the openings when the wind was fierce.

Ruari seemed to have appointed himself as a guide of sorts, for he enthusiastically recounted the merits of Blackleith for Vivienne. She could feel Erik behind her, feel his gaze upon her, but she felt it time enough the he granted her a measure of encouragement.

Ruari pointed to the stone structure. “Within the hall, the main floor is used as both great hall and accommodation for guests, and while we abided there, Erik always claimed the upper floor for himself and his family. The second floor is reached by a ladder, though it is sufficiently large to be divided into chambers, to be sure, and the chimney passes through the floor on one side. In this way, the heat of the fire is shared throughout the structure.”

“Most clever,” Vivienne said.

Ruari nodded. “Indeed. There is a single hole in the roof, where the smoke is emitted. And Blackleith is the first abode in all of Sutherland with a moat dug around the hall, one so deep that the water within it is always dark and cold. Why, the Earl himself thought it such a sound notion that he talked of adding one to Dunrobin after he had seen this keep.”

Vivienne noted that the summit of Blackleith’s hall lacked a banner, like the heraldic ones that snapped in the wind above her family’s keeps. “Is that Blackleith village?” she asked, indicating the cluster of peasant cottages beyond.

“Aye, and there is a small chapel, as well,” Ruari noted. “See the abode with the dark door? That is the home of the blacksmith, his skill so considerable that even the Earl sends his favored weapons to this smith for repair. There is also a mill, run by a miller who divides his fee with the laird.”

Beyond the village, sheep grazed, white against the purple heather, and a few chickens pecked the earth. Fields spread to the west, along the north bank of the river, though they were falling fallow. Blackleith had the appearance of a holding that had once been more prosperous than it was presently.

Children played on the edge of the fields and Vivienne turned to Erik. “Are your daughters among them?”

He shook his head, for clearly he had already sought their familiar figures, and his expression was somber.

Vivienne forced herself to sound cheerful. “Though they would scarcely play with the children of the peasants. Doubtless they are within the hall.”

She saw Erik’s gaze slip toward the chapel. She followed his gaze and caught her breath when she saw the small cemetery beside the chapel. Surely, he did not think that Nicholas had killed such young innocents?

“Nicholas is free with coin that is not his to spend, to be sure,” Ruari complained, pointing a heavy finger to a structure beyond the keep which might have been new. “Though there is no coin more easily spent than that for which a man owes no accounting, upon that you can rely. Why, I heard tell once of a man in the employ of the Earl who traveled all the way to London for a trio of cloves, the better to make hippocras for the Earl, then demanded that the Earl pay the sum of his expenses, the bills for the stabling of his steed and lodgings for himself, no less every morsel of food that crossed his lips and ale that filled his belly. Now, there was a man with audacity and to spare!”

“It is a stable, and it is new,” Erik said. “But what need has Nicholas of a stable? There is only the old grey plough horse at Blackleith, and she is well accustomed to the shanty beside the smith’s cottage.”

They all looked toward the smith’s cottage, but no grey horse was tethered there.

“Where is the grey plough horse?” Ruari demanded with outrage. “What has he done with her? And how are the peasants to till the fields without her?”

“I am not certain that they have,” Erik mused.

Upon closer inspection, Vivienne saw his point. The fields might not have been even tilled this year. Certainly it was not a familiar crop to her eyes that grew within them.

“There are not as many sheep as I might have expected, perhaps half as many as in former years,” Erik noted with evident displeasure. “And the children look to me to be thin.”

The smith’s wife stepped out of their cottage to shout at the children and Ruari swore beneath his breath.

“She is but half her former self,” he said, concern pulling his lips to a tight line.

Vivienne could have guessed what had happened to the bounty of Blackleith for she recalled Nicholas’ fondness for fine garb.

A trio of squires left the hall then, their silken tabards glinting in the sunlight. They were plump, these three, and they laughed loudly as they made their way to the new barn.

The smith’s wife regarded them with undisguised hostility. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at them, after she summoned the children to her side. They scampered into the cottage, as if fearful of the proud young men.

“Squires?” Ruari demanded with a wrinkled nose. “And what need has the Laird of Blackleith of squires? There are no tournaments hereabouts, upon that any thinking man can rely. Doubtless he has minstrels in his hall each night, and poets at the board! Perhaps there are pearls sewn in rows upon his chausses and gems ground into his ale each night!” Ruari flung out his hands. “While the people who labor beneath him are condemned to starve for lack of a plough horse. Doubtless he sold the old mare for a pittance! Your father must be turning within his grave at this, to be sure.”

“Hush, Ruari, lest you be overheard.”

Ruari snorted and might have said more despite Erik’s warning if the squires had not led six splendid steeds out of the barn in that very moment. Instead he exhaled in awe and exasperation, then muttered a curse and shoved a hand through his hair. “It is no marvel that the smith’s wife is so displeased. She was always a kindly one, but such abuses with coin as these would drive the sweetness from the ripest apple.”

Vivienne watched as hooded falcons were brought on gloved fists, and the sumptuous saddles that were put upon the horses. The coats of these steeds gleamed, so well did they eat, and their necks arched proudly. They were fine steeds, to be sure, but it was clear how Nicholas had managed to afford them.

The miller’s wife stepped out of her cottage, spared a glance for the smith’s wife, then regarded the steeds with disdain. “We should demand that the laird grant us one of his horses,” she called to the other woman. The squires pretended not to notice her, but Vivienne had no doubt they could hear her words. “Lest our children starve this winter.”

“I know not what he thinks we shall eat,” the smith’s wife retorted. “Since the lambs are taken for the laird’s own table and a man lose a hand for taking so much as a squirrel from the forest. A child does not grow strong and tall upon onions, to be sure.”

“I hear horseflesh is fine to eat,” the first woman replied. “Though truly, hunger does make the best sauce.”

The squires glared at the women and did not deign to reply.

“He would slaughter them all for such a crime,” Ruari muttered and Erik did not doubt as much. “It is clear these steeds are prized beyond all else.”

“How long will a woman watch her children go hungry?” Vivienne asked. “They may so desperate that they do not care what his retaliation might be.”

A fanfare sounded and a minstrel leapt out of the portal to the keep proper, sounding his horn as he did so. He too was dressed in fine silken garments of bright hues and he bowed low as he glanced back to that portal.

The women sneered, but their expressions became impassive as soon as a party of four nobles stepped through the doorway. Vivienne realized that they were not prepared to fully tempt the laird’s wrath.

For it was none other than Nicholas Sinclair, garbed richly from head to toe, who strode across the bridge over the moat. His hair gleamed in the sunlight, the gems upon his fingers flashed. He laughed at some comment made by the other man who strolled with him, the handsome group making their way toward the saddled steeds.

The women wore clothing so ornate as to have cost a king’s ransom, their tightly laced vests trimmed with ermine, their sleeves hanging to the very ground, their skirts and sleeves hemmed with deep golden embroidery thick with gems. Both wore gloves of colored leather, both wore their hair curled up beneath elaborate caps adorned with massive feathers. Two maids scampered behind the group, giggling with each other and grimacing at the mud underfoot.

Vivienne turned to her companions, intending to make some comment about the women’s rich garb, but the shocked expressions upon the men’s’ voices stole whatever she might have said. Erik seemingly could not look beyond the woman who took his brother’s elbow. “What is amiss?” she asked. “You must have expected to see Nicholas here.”

Erik swallowed and bowed his head.

Ruari looked to Vivienne with sympathy in his eyes. “The woman who walks with Nicholas.”

“She is garbed as richly as a queen and looks most delighted with herself.” Vivienne said, not understanding the reason for their dismay. “You must have seen such fine garb in your journey. To be sure, the peasants have contributed the coin and that is shocking, but...”

“She is Beatrice,” Ruari said grimly.

Vivienne looked between the two men in dismay, but Erik’s features might have been wrought of stone. “Not Erik’s wife, Beatrice. She is dead.”

Ruari shook his head. “She appears most hale.”

And Vivienne understood then the fullness of the challenge before her. No wonder Erik looked like a man struck to stone! His beloved yet lived!

She turned back to watch Erik’s wife, tears blurring her vision. She had erred in truth, for not only did Erik love his wife, but his wife still drew breath.

Which meant that Vivienne could never win his regard for her own.

Impulse had steered her false.

* * *

Beatrice was alive!

Erik could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. Several matters which had always confused him, however, began to make a dreadful sense.

Why had there been no hint of her presence when he had returned to Blackleith in the Earl’s company? Why had no one been willing to tell the Earl outright about her fate? Erik suspected that even Nicholas knew that the Earl of Sutherland would not be hasty to endorse an immediate match with his late brother’s wife.

But Beatrice’s survival had tremendous import. Erik had committed adultery with Vivienne, albeit unknowingly. He had sinned, and he did not imagine that any judge would grant him clemency for his ignorance. How diligently had he sought Beatrice, after all?

So, he had soiled Vivienne twice: once in the claiming of her maidenhead, then again in committing adultery. There was no question of his embracing her again, not until he could be certain of how matters would be resolved.

Erik urged Ruari and Vivienne further back into the shadows as he considered the best course. The foursome at Blackleith’s hall, meanwhile, mounted their steeds and accepted hunting hawks upon their fists. The three squires mounted three fine palfreys and the nine steeds made no haste toward the distant forest.

“Do you think the laird will cast alms from his hall if he takes a hart?” the smith’s wife demanded.

The miller’s wife shrugged. “He will eat it all, or cast it to his dogs before he grants charity to those beneath his hand, upon that you can rely.”

“Aye, you speak the truth in that.” The two women exchanged a look of resignation, then returned to their cottages with drooping shoulders.

Erik barely glanced at Vivienne. “You will remain hidden here,” he said tersely, unwilling to risk her life. He had already led her to sin and thus endangered her very soul. He could not bring himself to look at her fully, so ridden with guilt was he. “And I will hear no protest on this matter.”

“Of course,” Vivienne said, so demure that she might have been another woman.

Erik looked at her then and was shaken by her pallor. She stood dejected, as never he had seen her, the bright sparkle of her eyes dimmed to naught. She sighed and sat down, apparently so burdened with patience that she had not the urge to do any deed at all.

Guilt stabbed through him. Clearly, she felt the weight of their sinful deed as fully as he did.

Erik did not know what to say. At the same time, he could not leave without a consoling word, for he knew not whether he would return. He took a step toward her and she averted her face, though still he saw the shimmer of her unshed tears. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not know.”

“I know,” Vivienne whispered and the first of her tears fell. “I know, just as I know that I have only my foolish trust to blame.”

“You may be many things, Vivienne Lammergeier, but you are no fool.”

She looked up through her tears and managed a tremulous smile. “I thank you for that courtesy, though I fear you see more merit than I truly possess.”

“Impossible,” Erik said and their gazes held for a potent moment. He saw her hope, he guessed what she desired of him, and he was sorely tempted to grant it to her.

But he would pledge love when he could act upon it honorably, not merely to halt a woman’s tears.

He inclined his head once in silent salute, then turned away, summoning Ruari with a flick of his fingers. “We will seize the maid’s horses, for they do not look to be competent riders,” he said. “Then I will pursue Nicholas, wheresoever he might flee.”

The older man nodded and grunted, sparing Vivienne a fatherly glance. He stepped to her side and laid a hand upon her shoulder and Erik heard his gruff words. “This tale is not over, lass, upon that you can rely. You know as well as I that the sole folly that can do a soul injury is to lose hope when success is deceptively close at hand. All looks most dire just before matters turn in one’s favor, just as the night is most black before the dawn.”

“I thank you, Ruari, for your sound counsel,” Vivienne said and the older man puffed with pride.

“And a good portent it is that someone thinks my opinion worthy of merit, to be sure,” he said with forced cheer. He then strode past Erik with marked impatience, as if he had been waiting upon the younger man. He even snapped his fingers. “Come along, lad, the hunt is not begun while one lingers in conversation.”

Vivienne and Erik exchanged a glance that warmed Erik’s heart before he turned to Ruari. The two men broke into a run then, circling around the meadow while staying within the protective shadows of the forest.

A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and the sun was swallowed finally by the dark clouds. Those clouds built ever higher and blacker in the sky overhead, and the thunder sounded again, as if it would warn Nicholas Sinclair that his reckoning came due.

Erik knew that no warning could prepare his brother for what was to come.

Chapter Sixteen

It was not like Rosamunde to feel trepidation, but she felt it to her very bones as Ravensmuir loomed high on the cliff above her ship. They approached the coast in early evening, as seldom she had before. This time, Rosamunde saw no point in subterfuge.

Indeed, she hoped that Tynan would meet her. She would have to seek him out either way, for she had need of the ring she had returned to him to sate this vengeful spriggan.

The sailors were hushed. They could be superstitious, as Rosamunde knew, and their hesitation to serve a woman would only have been increased by the tidings that she was haunted by a malicious fairy. Padraig stood by her side, like a guardian determined to see an unpleasant duty completed by his ward.

Matters had been strained between them since Rosamunde had learned of Vivienne’s departure with Padraig’s aid. By the time she had awakened, the ship had been miles south, though, and there had been no real chance of pursuing Erik and Vivienne. Now that her temper had cooled, Rosamunde had to admit that Padraig had meant well.

That did not keep her from fretting about her niece, however.

Clouds scuttled across the sky on this day, which already was touched with rose, and the keep was silhouetted against the painted sky. Rosamunde had to admit to herself that for a pile of ancient stones, Ravensmuir had a certain dignity that prompted one’s admiration.

“We cannot even know if the spriggan is yet with us,” she complained, as irritable that she was compelled to serve the will of another as for the deed itself.

Padraig snorted. “I doubt it would abandon you now. The creature seems to doubt your intent, though I could not venture a guess as to why.”

Rosamunde ignored that comment. Padraig was welcome to end his days in Sicily, to her thinking, for he had grown overly sullen and outspoken of late.

But then, she had possessed less than her usual charm since she and Tynan had argued. The shadow fell over the ship from the cliffs that towered high above and Rosamunde shivered.

“I will go into the caverns alone,” she said abruptly. “For I do not know what will happen and would not endanger any of you.”

“I will accompany you,” Padraig said, his voice dropping in his concern.

“No, not this time.” Rosamunde turned to face the man who had sailed in her company the longest of all men. There was silver at Padraig’s temples now and lines creased his tan beside his eyes. His eyes had narrowed, though they still were a vibrant hue, and he laughed less than once he had. Rosamunde had a sudden vision of him sailing southward, upon this very ship, without her at the helm. She was oft visited by such visions and knew better than to distrust them.

She laid her hand upon his tanned forearm, knowing that this would be their last parting and feeling a measure of dread at what must lie before her. “Take the ship,” she said, her words husky. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.”

Padraig frowned. “But what of the contents?”

“Sell them, sell them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.” Rosamunde could not look upon him. She was unaccustomed to granting such a large gift, and she feared Padraig would proudly disdain it, although it was his due.

“But...”

“I owe you no less for all your years of faithful service.”

“But the ship?”

“Sell it as well, or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig.” Rosamunde heaved a sigh and looked up at shadowed Ravensmuir once more. “I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.” She forced a smile for him, for he clearly thought her relieved of her wits, and blinked back her tears. “You will fare well enough,” she said gruffly. “I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see, will be true.”

Padraig took an unsteady breath himself, his gaze trailing up the cliffs that confronted them. “What do you see for yourself?”

Rosamunde shook her head.

It was Padraig who looked away then, a frown furrowing his brow. “I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes,” he said, his manner both rough and affectionate. “Be cautious, Rosamunde, though it is not in your nature. This fairy means you harm, and even if you do surrender the ring to her, her taste for vengeance may not be sated.” He lowered his voice. “And even if the fairy spares you, the Laird of Ravensmuir may not.”

“It does not matter,” Rosamunde said, knowing that to be true. “My fate lies here, as always it did, and the only course forward is through Ravensmuir’s caverns.” She turned and shook his hand lest she make the parting more difficult than it had need of being. “Farewell, Padraig. May the wind always fill your sails when you have need of it.”

To her surprise, he caught her in a tight hug, then released her abruptly. He stared at the deck, and his lips worked for a moment in silence before he found the words. The ones he finally found surprised her, as she was seldom surprised. “We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I will consider you to be my friend.” He looked at her, his expression fierce, as if daring her to argue with him. “You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other.”

“No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you,” she said.

“I did,” he replied.

They both looked away then, Padraig to the sea and Rosamunde to the dark portal of the cavern. Never had they spoken such heartfelt words to each other and Rosamunde knew they would never have done so had they both not feared that this parting would be their last.

“I will wait for the tide,” Padraig said, his words hoarse. “It does not turn for a short time yet. If you have need of me, if you have need of this ship, you have but to hail me.”

Rosamunde knew she would not hail him, no matter what greeted her in the caverns. She also knew that she would not persuade Padraig of that simple truth. Her destiny awaited her here, whatever it was, and she knew it to her very marrow. She was afraid, as any soul of sense would have been afraid of such a reckoning.

But destiny could not be evaded. It would wait for her, it would turn her steps back to Ravensmuir time and again until she faced her due.

She chose to face it now.

Rosamunde and Padraig parted in hasty silence then, for there was no more to be said. She climbed down the rope ladder under the watchful gazes of the hired seamen and took up the oars in the small boat tethered to the ship. She rowed toward the dark mouth of the cavern with vigor, reveling in her own strength and the splash of the sea water upon her skin. The sea lifted her and seemed to push her forward, the sun made its surface look to be embellished with gems.

Rosamunde felt vitally alive and appreciative of the abundant gifts she had been given. She had always had good health, she had known a potent love, she always been uncommonly fortunate. She had cheated Death a dozen times at least, she had wrought better terms from Fortune time and again, and she had never lost a man at sea.

It was only when the chill of the cliff’s shadow enfolded her that Rosamunde wondered whether her allotment of good luck had all been consumed, if she was left in this moment with no more.

It was then, for the first time, that she fancied she heard the spriggan laugh.

Darg’s was not a merry laugh, to be sure.

Rosamunde tethered her boat, not sparing a backward glance to her ship even as she strode off into the cavern. A chasm rent the path from the pool to the large cavern in these days, a chasm with dark water low in it. Rosamunde well remembered its eerie clutch from her last visit here. She lit a torch with a flint she always carried, then lifted it high as she strode further into the labyrinth.

She wondered whether the spriggan accompanied her or not, but had no way of knowing. She could not see the creature and if it matched its steps to hers, it laughed no longer.

Rosamunde moved with quick purpose, following the course she knew as well as the lines of her own hand. She would climb to Tynan’s chamber, she decided, for that was where she had left the ring and that was where she was most likely to encounter him alone. If he was not there, if the ring was not there, then she would decide upon an alternate course at that point.

Rosamunde had never been troubled by the labyrinth, though she had known many over the years who found it upsetting. She had always thought of it as corridors, useful corridors filled with useful trinkets, a maze filled with only intriguing surprises. On this day, however, it smelled different to her. On this day, she could feel menace emanating from its walls.

Perhaps it was because the labyrinth was empty as she had never known it to be. Perhaps it was because the relics that had filled the crates stacked here previously had provided a certain mystical protection, a protection which was now gone.

Perhaps Rosamunde was simply afraid.

She walked more quickly, turning a number of corners with a lack of caution that was not characteristic of her, and strode without hesitation into the single large cavern from which most paths branched.

Rosamunde halted so quickly then that she almost stumbled.

Another torch spilled a puddle of light upon the hewn rock floor on the opposite side of the chamber. The man bearing that torch stood with his boots braced against the floor. He did not so much as move, though she felt the weight of his gaze upon her. Despite herself, her heart skipped in a most unruly fashion.

For the man who awaited her was Tynan Lammergeier, Laird of Ravensmuir, love of her life.

* * *

Vivienne had been steered false by an impetuous choice a dozen times, but never had she erred so thoroughly as this. She sat dejected in the forest near Blackleith, caring little that heavy raindrops began to fall. She drew her hood over her head, planted her chin on her fist and sighed.

Erik and Ruari had run into the forest and now could not be discerned. Nicholas and his hunting party had disappeared into the distant smudge of forest. The two discontent wives had returned to their cottages, the children had gone home and even the chickens had disappeared.

She had never felt so alone in all her days.

Worse, her fate was her own fault. Matters were muddled in truth. Had she been Madeline, all would have come together perfectly at the end, but Vivienne had never possessed Madeline’s ability to note even those details set against her. She oft under-estimated the fullness of the challenge she undertook, and in this case, her choice to pursue Erik would affect only her own fate.

Alexander would never find a spouse for her now, of that she was certain. In truth, Vivienne did not much care, for the sole spouse she desired was a man who clearly had a spouse already.

She wished fervently though that her bold choice did not reflect badly upon the natures—and the marital opportunities—of her remaining unwed sisters.

* * *

The maids were as inept as Erik had suspected. He and Ruari crept up behind the two women with ease, for they were unaware of their surroundings.

Save for the location of their patroness. The pair disparaged her choice of garb and manners with savage glee and ensured that they could not be overheard. The maids lingered on the perimeter of the forest, letting their horses graze as they laughed over their lady’s choice of silks.

“That hue of gold makes her look to be dead,” chortled the one.

“And the embroidery is more fitting for a wall tapestry than a noblewoman’s hems,” said the other.

“Yet Lord Henry continues to pay the price of her every whim. Is the man blind or besotted?”

The second maid laughed. “He cares not what the cost is to keep her blind.”

“What is that to mean?”

“You will know when he finds you alone in the larder one night.”

“You cannot mean that he beds you?” the first gasped.

The other was clearly not prepared to share all of her secrets. “This cursed rain,” she muttered. “I seem to always be obliged to relieve myself.” She dismounted, leaving the other with her thousand questions, and made her way into the forest.

Fortunately, there was that length of rope in the saddlebag, the one Erik had used to scale Kinfairlie’s walls. It would be of use this day, for certain. He eased it from the bag and pursued the maid stealthily. She was just in the midst of lifting her chemise and utterly unaware of any threat when Erik pounced upon her.

She lay trussed on the forest floor, eyes wide in astonishment, in no time at all. She made but one sound of protest before Erik shoved a length of cloth into her mouth.

That sound was sufficient to kindle the other maid’s curiosity. “Adele?” she asked, then Erik heard her dismount as well. “Adele? Did you slip?”

She asked no more before Erik granted her the same fate as her companion. The two women wriggled together helplessly on the ground. “I have need of your horses,” Erik said to them. “You will be released when all is resolved.”

They did not appear to be reassured by this pledge, but he had no time to further placate them. He and Ruari swung into the saddles and rode in pursuit of Nicholas.

* * *

Vivienne did not know how long she sat despondent, but it was raining in earnest when six horses came galloping wildly across the meadows. So erratic was their pace that Vivienne rose to her feet, convinced that they were a mark of bad news.

But Erik was not among them. It was the other three nobles from the hunting party, the two women and the other man, followed by the three squires. All of them were soaked to the skin, their fine garb looking bedraggled in the rain.

Beatrice fairly flung her hunting hawk at a squire, then marched into the hall. Vivienne bristled that any soul would treat a tethered and hooded—thus helpless—creature so poorly. A peregrine was a noble huntress, worthy of respect for its nature as well as the sheer cost of acquisition and training. Daughter of a family engaged in the training and trade of such birds, Vivienne was outraged.

She might well loose that bird, just to ensure that it did not have to endure such treatment again. It would be a small strike against the woman whose very existence had shattered Vivienne’s dream, and perhaps a petty one, but a deed that would aid the bird which could not aid itself.

Vivienne eased closer to the lip of the forest. The other couple remained upon their steeds, though the woman complained bitterly about the weather. The squires made themselves scarce, hastening toward the stable with the hawks. Their palfreys stood with their heads down, clearly discontent to be left in the rain.

Two of the boys then made their way into the hall, pausing en route for a quick word with the man, while the third cast the barest glance toward the hall before he mounted his palfrey and gave the beast his heels. He galloped in the direction the party had just come, and did so with such haste that he might have feared to be caught.

With that squire’s departure, Vivienne sensed that something was afoot. This party must have seen Erik to have come so quickly from the forest, though their plan was far from clear. She would listen, and perhaps she would hear some detail that would be of aid to Erik. The forest curved closest to the new stable and she made her way to that point, clinging cautiously to the shadows though the rain would make it more difficult for them to see her.

“Look,” the noblewoman said, her shrill voice carrying easily to Vivienne’s ears. “The finest damask that could be had in Paris, the most choice samite from Constantinople, and all of it ruined! What person of sense would abide in this foul clime? If it does not rain, then the rain has halted but moments before, or the rain will begin in moments.” She shuddered elaborately. “And the fare is scarce worth the journey. I tell you, Henry, if I am compelled to ingest another hare, no less one with all its bones yet lingering in some thin excuse for a mustard sauce, then I shall scream in fury.”

“We leave shortly, my love,” the man said calmly. He was clearly accustomed to his wife’s manner, though he glanced grimly skyward. “Must we leave this very night?” he asked plaintively. “Surely the rain will halt by the morning?”

“We cannot leave soon enough, in my opinion, though it is vulgar for Beatrice to hasten us from her portal on such an evening as this. I always knew her to be common beneath her fine attire, to be sure. Why do we linger, at all? Why do we even wait for Beatrice and her foul children?”

Vivienne’s ears pricked at this morsel. She slipped around the stable and strained her ears to hear more.

“Because I have given her my pledge that we shall protect them, of course, my dear.”

The wife turned upon her spouse in vexation. “But why? What earthly good are a pair of young girls? If they were boys, they might train in your service, but girls? They will have to be wed and they will have to be garbed, and almost certainly they will be as vain as their mother which will cost you dearly in the end. And for what? They can scarcely be said to be of noble birth, and I doubt they are beauteous enough to make a good match on their own merit alone. Girls are impossible, after all. Look how unreliable those maids have been! They cannot keep themselves in their saddles. I do not care if it takes them all the week to walk back to the hall: Beatrice is welcome to their abilities.” She tossed her head. “I do not know what you were thinking in making such an agreement.”

“Beatrice’s daughters will make a fitting donation to the local convent, of course,” the man said softly and his wife stared at him in silent awe.

Vivienne almost gasped aloud, so great was her shock. They could not do this to Erik’s daughters! It was one matter to donate one’s own child to a life of contemplation, but no man had the right to do as much with another man’s child.

How dare they scheme thus?

But clearly, she had not heard incorrectly. The woman smiled. “Oh Henry, you are clever. We shall make a contribution and that without emptying our treasury. Will we not have to make a donation for their care, though?”

“Rely upon me, my dear. I shall make a fair wager for them, one way or the other.” Henry laughed shortly. “After all, if the convent does not desire them as they are, then we can sell them into service.”

Never! Vivienne forgot the falcons in her newfound determination to aid Erik’s daughters.

The woman chortled. “We shall see some advantage from visiting this ghastly abode. I like your scheme well, Henry.” She smiled then, as Beatrice tugged two small girls out of the hall of Blackleith. “And here are your beloved angels!” she called in honeyed tones.

The two girls scarce behaved like angels. It was clear to Vivienne that they did not accompany their mother willingly, as if they guessed the fate in store for them. The youngest once dragged her feet in sullen discontent, until Beatrice muttered something and caught the child around the waist, lifting her with an effort.

“Come along, my dear Astrid,” she said, as if the child was merely slow. A young serving girl, perhaps of fifteen summers, her eyes narrowed, slipped through Blackleith’s door to watch. She made no move to aid Beatrice, but folded her arms across her chest and stood her ground.

“They do not seem to wish to leave you, dear Beatrice,” the noblewoman said, her words too sweet.

“They were sleeping,” Beatrice insisted. “And a child awakened suddenly oft awakens in less than sweet temper.” She pressed a kiss to Astrid’s temple and the child snarled openly at her. Beatrice feigned a laugh. “Oh, she is so accustomed to her nanny that she scarce recognizes me when she is sleepy!”

The little girl punctuated that comment with a hefty kick to her mother’s leg. Beatrice grimaced, then swung the child into her arms, holding her elbows and knees fast against her own chest. Astrid began to kick and struggle with vigor then. Beatrice marched toward the couple, a gleam of determination in her eyes.

“Come, Erin, you could be of aid in this,” Beatrice said to the girl standing by the portal.

That girl shook her head and did not move.

“I shall see you whipped for such disobedience,” Beatrice said, even as she held fast to the flailing child.

Erin smiled. “You shall have to catch me first,” she said, then turned and fled into the forest.

The three nobles looked after the girl, aghast at her disobedience.

“One cannot find a decent nanny in this land, to be certain,” Beatrice said, clearly speaking through gritted teeth. “You can imagine the difficulties I face. I am convinced that the girls will be well served by the journey south and you will not regret this small favor to me. Truly, they are usually sweet beyond compare.”

The older girl, Mairi, trailed behind her mother sullenly, clearly having no inclination to be sweet.

“Hasten yourself!” Beatrice snapped at the girl, whose expression turned mutinous even as her mother pivoted to smile sunnily at her guests.

With three younger sisters and a house that had not always been tranquil, Vivienne knew the gleam that lit Mairi’s eyes. She braced herself for trouble, the kind of trouble a small angry child can make.

Mairi moved with uncommon speed. She leapt forward with vigor and trod determinedly upon her mother’s hems. She ground the finely embroidered cloth into the mud with her heel, so vengeful that Vivienne knew there was no affection between mother and this child.

So long and elaborate were Beatrice’s hems that that woman managed half a dozen steps, unaware of one child’s deeds as she struggled with the other, before the cloth was suddenly taut around her knees. Beatrice only had time to gasp and see the truth before she tripped on her full skirts and fell into the mud. Astrid took advantage of her mother’s loosed grasp to leap from her arms. Vivienne saw Mairi’s face light with satisfied malice as Beatrice’s kirtle audibly tore.

Beatrice spun with startling speed and smacked Mairi full across the face. The little girl sat down in the mud with a splat and began to wail in protest. Beatrice hauled her hems out of the muck with vigor, snatched up Astrid and cast that child into the noblewoman’s lap.

The woman recoiled in disgust. “I cannot carry the child!” she cried, raising her hands as if she feared to so much as touch the girl. She looked about herself in dismay. “Surely, they have a maid, or a nanny, or some person who must accompany them. Look how the child soils my kirtle! Henry!”

Astrid took one look at the woman’s face and began to cry in earnest. Beatrice tried to haul Mairi closer to the couple but that child was sufficiently tall and heavy that she could not be readily moved against her will.

The squires, meanwhile, brought several plump saddlebags from the hall. They moved with purpose as they burdened the pair of palfreys still standing in the rain.

“You must go with Henry and Arabella,” Beatrice told the protesting Mairi. “They will give you fine gifts, beautiful garb and fare so delicious that you will think yourself in paradise.”

Mairi glared at her mother. “Do you accompany them?” she demanded with suspicion.

Beatrice smiled for her guests. “I know that you will miss me, Mairi, but I must remain here for the moment. We shall see each other shortly.” She bent to kiss the child’s cheek, but Mairi pushed her aside, leaving a muddy handprint upon Beatrice’s cheek.

The little girl rose from the mud, marched to Henry’s stirrup, then lifted her hands toward him. “Up,” she commanded, and Henry seemed to not know what to do.

Vivienne imagined that this pair suddenly saw the merit of the two maids they had abandoned in the forest.

And that granted her an idea. She fastened her cloak more fully about herself, the better to hide her fine kirtle. Her cloak was soiled so would not raise suspicions. She hastily moved Erik’s pin so that it was hidden beneath her cloak, then stepped out of the shadows, her hood pulled over her hair.

“I would offer my aid,” she said and the group spun in their shock to regard her.

“Who are you?” Beatrice demanded.

“I am a serving woman, a freewoman seeking a noble family to serve. I heard tell at the abode of the Earl of Sutherland that there was a fine abode further north, perhaps in need of my skills, and so I came this far.”

“What skills have you?” Arabella demanded.

“I have been a wet nurse,” Vivienne lied. “And I have been responsible for young girls. I can teach embroidery and matters of etiquette.”

“Then what brings you so far?” Beatrice demanded. “Why did you leave your previous abode?”

Vivienne wished she could have conjured a flush. “I feared,” she began, striving to think of some plausible detail. Henry granted her an appraising glance, one that did make her blush in truth and granted her an idea. “I feared to become a wet nurse again,” she said and the women nodded in unison.

Arabella jabbed Henry with one fingertip. “Fortunately, you will have no such fears in our household -- will she, Henry?”

“Of course not, my dear,” that man said with some discomfiture. “But are you certain that we have need of such a woman? It will be another mouth at our board, after all.”

“Up!” demanded Mairi. Astrid grasped a pearl sewn to Arabella’s kirtle and did so with such vigor that the gem popped from the cloth. It sprang into the mud and rolled away. Vivienne hastened to pick it up and offer it to the noblewoman.

“You must have journeyed far,” Arabella said, her gaze assessing as she accepted the pearl.

“My lord’s lust was potent indeed,” Vivienne said, her cheeks stained an even darker hue at this confession.

The woman assessed her openly, then nodded once. “If you so tempt another nobleman in my abode, I shall see you flogged.”

“Understood, my lady.” Vivienne bowed her head as the servants did at Kinfairlie. “It is my intent to please, my lady.” Vivienne emphasized that by picking Astrid out of the woman’s lap and cuddling her close. The child regarded her with suspicion, but to Vivienne’s relief, she did not scream.

“Baldwin, you shall ride along with Algernon and grant the other palfrey to the maid,” Henry commanded his squires. “Come, if we ride immediately, we can reach the hospitality of the Earl’s hall before midnight.”

It was Mairi that almost foiled Vivienne’s scheme, for once in her lap, the child slipped beneath Vivienne’s cloak. Vivienne thought the girls were cold and let them ease closer, but Mairi’s fingers rose to touch the silver pin.

Her fingers closed over it and Vivienne’s heart nigh stopped. The clutch of the child’s fingers and her sudden stillness made Vivienne fear that the child knew the pin.

“Shhhhhh,” Vivienne whispered to her, striving to not attract the attention of the noble couple riding just ahead. “There is no need to cry. We shall be in a warm bed soon enough, with fine fare in our bellies.”

Mairi continued to finger the pin, her bright gaze—of a vivid blue reminiscent of Erik’s own—more knowing than it should have been for her age. She held Vivienne’s gaze so solemnly, her grip locked upon the pin, that Vivienne wondered how much this child recalled of her father and his supposed demise.

* * *

“I saw the ship,” Tynan said, clearing his throat as if he felt as awkward in this moment as Rosamunde.

She said nothing.

“I saw the ship and I knew you returned. I had hoped that you might come alone.”

“Why?” Rosamunde asked, not daring to hope for any kindness from him after his harsh words when last they had parted.

Tynan inclined his head and seemed unduly fascinated with the toes of his boots. “Because I owe you an apology, and I lack grace with such matters.”

Rosamunde felt her resistance to him soften, for she knew apologies came no more readily to this proud man’s lips than to her own. “You lack grace in no matters.”

A fleeting smile curved his mouth then, easing the tension from his face for a bare instant before it disappeared and he frowned anew. “I thank you for that, though I think you too kind.” Tynan took a few steps closer and Rosamunde saw new lines of care around his eyes.

Perhaps this interval had been as difficult for him as for her. It was a tantalizing possibility.

Tynan swallowed visibly. “I believed the worst of you when you supported Rhys FitzHenry’s suit for Madeline, instead of asking you for the truth of what you knew.” He referred to their resounding battle over the welfare of their niece, a fight which had occurred months ago yet still had the power to infuriate Rosamunde. “I assumed he truly was a traitor to have been so charged, but you must have known that they were false charges brought against him.”

“I did.”

“I apologize that I believed you had cast Madeline into peril for no good cause. I was too troubled to see that it would have been unlike you to have done so, for you have always been protective of your own.”

Rosamunde inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You were hardly unjustified in assuming that I consorted with scoundrels. I have been known to do so.”

“I was unjust.” Tynan cleared his throat again and took another step closer. Rosamunde could see the glint of his eyes now, the quickness of his breath. Could he feel as much trepidation as she did?

“And I apologize,” he continued, “for you accused me rightly of treating you unfairly. I knew that you believed I meant to wed you when we chose to auction the relics and yet I did not make the truth of my intent clear. I knew that you would believe our future began when we spent another night abed, but I could not bear to confess the truth to you -- nor could I bear to part without loving one last time. And I was wrong, as well, to deny you any legacy from Ravensmuir.”

Rosamunde cleared her throat in her turn and took a step closer. “I should not have stolen one,” she admitted and was rewarded by the brief flash of Tynan’s smile.

“You were provoked.”

“I was furious.”

He bowed his head. “I was a fool.”

Rosamunde almost reached for him but then she realized that he had pledged nothing different. She waited, watching him with care. He lifted his left hand and she saw the glint of the silver ring she had previously worn. It graced his smallest finger, though still it nearly filled the knuckle.

She glanced up and found Tynan watching her. “Wed me, Rosamunde,” he whispered hoarsely. “If you can forgive me.”

“But what of Ravensmuir?”

He sighed and frowned and looked away. “I fear it lost.”

Anger lit within Rosamunde and she lifted her chin. “So you would reconcile with me because you have nothing left to protect? I will be no man’s consolation!”

Tynan lifted a hand to halt her tirade and shook his head. “Archibald Douglas would treat with me, but the longer I delay, the more onerous his terms become. He pushes me further each day. I was prepared to wed a woman of his family to seal the treaty, if that would save Ravensmuir, but I am not prepared to disavow my nephew Malcolm.”

“They will leave Ravensmuir standing only if you breed an heir with one of their own,” Rosamunde guessed and Tynan nodded.

“And Malcolm will be left with nothing, despite my vow to make him my heir.” Tynan raised a fist and anger flashed in his eyes. “A pledge made should be a pledge kept, and a man should respect the vows of any man with whom he would treat. Douglas, though, grants no weight to pledges that do not serve his ambition. I will endure his demands no longer, though it means that I will not be able to keep him so readily from my gates.”

“Ravensmuir will be besieged by her neighbors,” Rosamunde suggested softly.

“We will be assaulted, to be sure.” Tynan shrugged, his eyes gleaming. “Perhaps Ravensmuir would have been attacked at any rate. Perhaps the bride they would have chosen for me would have opened the portcullis for them. I cannot know. I do not care.” His voice rose. “I have been pushed overmuch and I will be pushed no further.” He drew the ring from his finger and offered it to Rosamunde, his gaze intent. “Wed me, Rosamunde, for I love you in truth.”

But Rosamunde hesitated. Here was all she had believed she desired, and yet, a dreadful portent stilled her steps. She looked at the ring that once she had worn and trembled at some dark omen it bore. She feared then that Tynan’s love for Ravensmuir would come between them once again.

“Wed you because you no longer care what the neighbors think of your bride?” she teased.

Tynan laughed. “They are a deceitful and warmongering lot. No soul of good sense could care what they think.” He traced the curve of her cheek with a fingertip then, a glow lighting in his eyes. His voice was husky when he continued. “I have missed you, Rosamunde. Accept my ring and come again to my bed.”

“I thought I would not make a suitable Lady of Ravensmuir.”

“Only because I was fool enough to insist as much. I was wrong.”

“Aye, you were,” Rosamunde said. “How fortunate you are that I am a woman with a forgiving nature.”

“You are not, which is why your forgiveness would be a gift beyond expectation.” Tynan arched a brow.

She was a fool, afraid to accept what she had yearned for when it came within her grasp. There was no shadow ahead, only the unfamiliar prospect of being bound to another soul.

Rosamunde smiled and stepped forward, breaching the last gap between them. “I think our mutual apologies accepted,” she said and lifted her hand. Tynan held the circle of the ring between finger and thumb, and Rosamunde smiled as he slipped its weight over her knuckle once more. The silver shimmered, the ring slid down her finger, then an unholy scream filled the cavern.

Chapter Seventeen

Erik and Ruari pursued the hunting party even as fat drops of rain began to plummet from the sky.

“This is to our advantage,” Ruari claimed with pleasure. “The women will return to the hall, to be certain. And when the party turns back, we shall be able to catch them for certain.”

They gave the palfreys their heels and the beasts galloped onward along the path beaten down in the forest undergrowth. There was a bright point ahead, then the horses leapt out into a clearing. The change was astonishing, no less because a deluge of rain poured suddenly upon them.

Erik sputtered and shook his hair from his eyes. The horse slowed its pace and he saw why.

A party of four horses emerged from the forest on the far side of the clearing.

The horses nickered at each other. Erik had no time to draw his hood over his head before Nicholas cursed soundly. Beatrice shouted at her horse and smacked its rump, urging it to run to Erik’s left. The other horses fled in pursuit, the noble pair in the saddles looking wet and confused.

Nicholas might have followed but Erik roared. He shouted at his steed and gave chase to his treacherous brother. Ruari moved quickly on his left and between the two of them, they ensured that Nicholas could not flee back to the hall.

Nicholas turned his steed abruptly then and raced in the opposing direction, diving back into the cover of the forest. Erik guessed his brother’s destination immediately and urged the horse to give chase.

The land curved upward from this point, cresting in a barren hill that Erik knew well. From that point, one could see all the way down to the North Sea. Erik and Nicholas had played there often as boys, for there was an ancient group of standing stones that offered numerous places to hide.

The rain began to fall in cold sheets, but Erik did not care. His pulse quickened and he urged the palfrey to greater speed, though that left Ruari far behind.

He burst onto the hilltop, bald but for the knee-deep bounty of blooming heather. Nicholas turned his horse hard within the circle of stones ahead. The beast reared just as lightening crackled across the sky.

“A reckoning comes, Nicholas,” Erik shouted.

His brother laughed. “Surely not one granted by you? Do you trust me no longer, brother mine?”

“You taught me the folly of that long ago,” Erik replied. He halted his horse within the circle and confronted his brother in the rain. Nicholas’ tabard looked less magnificent as soaked as it was, and his hair was a less glorious hue of gold. He had never been pleased to be seen at less than his best, and he glowered at Erik as if Erik had summoned the rain.

Then he smirked. “Though it was a lesson you took so long to learn that I confess I never thought you would heed it.”

“It is less wicked to think well of one’s own kin than to think poorly of them,” Erik said and lifted his blade in challenge.

Nicholas slashed at him with sudden fury and the blades clanged against each other. Nicholas’ blade glanced off of Erik’s, so quickly did Erik raise his sword in defense.

“You were ever cursed quick,” Nicholas said and thrust his blade again.

This time, though he struck at Erik’s horse. Erik swore and strove to deflect his brother’s blade, but it was beyond his reach and struck the beast’s neck.

The horse whinnied in fear and Nicholas laughed. The wound was slight, but the horse was frightened and there was a deadly intent in Nicholas’ eyes. Erik swung out of the saddle and barely had to touch the palfrey’s flanks for the beast to flee.

Nicholas’ smile broadened. “Now we are better matched,” he said and swung at Erik in turn. Their blades rang as they struck, then stuck again and again. The destrier danced sideways and snorted, even as Nicholas compelled it to run in a circle around Erik. Nicholas stabbed downward, from behind Erik, and cut him across the back of his shoulders.

Erik swung and nearly dismounted his brother with sheer force, which granted him an idea. He dared not swing with all his power lest he injure the horse. He waited until Nicholas slashed at him again, then stabbed upward with sudden vigor.

Nicholas cried out in pain as the sword cut the inside of his upper arm. His eyes flashed in anger and he immediately swung downward with dangerous force. Erik ducked beneath the massive steed and pushed his brother’s foot up and out of the stirrup from the opposite side. That, combined with Nicholas’ own swing, sent that man tumbling to the ground.

Nicholas swore. He rolled as he fell, coming up on his feet, eyes narrowed. The destrier fled, reins snapping behind it as it raced downhill to safety.

And Erik erred in looking after the beast. In that heartbeat that he glanced away, Nicholas stabbed at him. Erik saw the flash of the blade from the periphery of his vision and leapt backward.

The steel cut across his arm, the wound deep and clean. It bled with fury but he ignored its sting. He held his blade high once again. “You might at least fight one battle honorably,” he said.

Nicholas smiled. “My tactics have served me well enough thus far,” he said, then arched a brow. “Not a soul missed you in these parts, Erik, to be sure. Your wife is more merry in my bed, your daughters call me Father, and Blackleith has never prospered more. Our own father knew the truth of it when he called you the shame of our mother’s womb.”

“Did you bury him with honor? Or did it not suit your convenience to do so?”

Their blades met with a resounding ring of steel on steel. The brothers backed away and circled each other warily.

Nicholas chuckled. “The dead tell no tales, Erik, and I shall not breach that silence. The old man is gone, on my side at the last. At least I finally persuaded him of my merit.”

“Did you then?”

“Can you not imagine how vexing it was to always be compared with you? You! You who could not summon a lie to your lips, no less a glib tale, you who could not charm a woman already besotted with you, you who never showed a care for your appearance. Yet always did our father remind me of your merit, no less note my deficiencies. It was tedious, at best.” Nicholas smiled. “I loved that he was in thrall to me at the end, that he had to beg my favor to be granted his meals thrice a day.”

“You did not so dishonor him!”

Nicholas only smiled.

Then he gasped in horror at the vigor of Erik’s assault. Erik swung with all his might, driving Nicholas back against a stone. His blade tucked neatly under his brother’s chin and Nicholas caught his breath as a thin trickle of blood mingled with the rainwater on the blade.

“You will rot in hell for such treachery,” Erik growled. “You will burn, and rightly so, for so dishonoring the man who granted you life.”

Nicholas’ gaze hardened. He pursed his lips and then he spat in Erik’s eye.

Erik blinked and that was all the opportunity his brother needed to slip from beneath the weight of his blade. They pursued each other around the stones, blades clashing, feet slipping in the mud, then Erik lost track of his brother.

He turned slowly, listening carefully. He heard nothing but the patter of the rain, saw nothing but the heather bowing beneath its assault.

“Ha!” Nicholas cried from his immediate right. Erik spun but too late, Nicholas had hooked his blade beneath the hilt of Erik’s sword. Slick with rain, Erik’s grip was loose enough that his brother managed to dislodge his blade and sent it scuttling across the ground.

“How sad that you cannot fight honestly, like a man of merit,” Erik mused.

“I win, howsoever I can,” Nicholas said.

“You win by cheating, for it is the only way you can.” Erik met his brother’s gaze. “Vivienne Lammergeier said as much, and it is clear that she knows you far better than I.”

Nicholas froze. “Vivienne? You have met Vivienne?”

Erik pulled his dagger as he nodded. “Indeed, I have, and you spoke aright. The lady is a marvel.”

Nicholas stood, shocked. “You did not bed her?”

Erik only smiled.

Nicholas lunged at him. Sword and dagger met with fury, the clash of blades dangerously close to Erik’s face. He fought back, grunting with the effort, and managed to nick Nicholas’ cheek.

That man cried out as he leapt backward, his hand rising to his face. “Do not disfigure me!”

“Surely he owes you no less,” Ruari interjected, appearing suddenly from behind a stone. Nicholas pivoted and swung his blade at Ruari. His sword was large and weighty, however, and Erik took advantage of the moment. He leapt upon his brother and slashed at his hand.

The sword fell to the ground, Nicholas’ blood streaming after it. He backed into a stone, his gaze flicking between Ruari and Erik. “So, this will be the end of it, will it? You will kill your own brother like a dog and leave me unmourned upon this hill?”

Erik hesitated.

“You tried to do the same to your own brother,” Ruari noted. “And you had no cause to do so.”

“Cease your prattle!” Nicholas spat, then spared a covert glance to the space beyond the circle of stones.

“Your squire is dead,” Ruari said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I would have let the boy live, but he was determined to ensure my end. There was little else I could do but guarantee his instead. What manner are you to train a boy so young as that to fight to the death, even when he is out-matched?”

Nicholas’ lips tightened, though he did not spare Ruari a reply. He turned an intent gaze upon Erik. “Will you kill me in truth, brother mine? We could reconcile, administer Blackleith as one. Beatrice would return to you with pleasure, at least if I commanded as much, I am certain.”

Ruari snorted.

Erik had no urge to kill the last of his own kin, not unless he were certain of Nicholas’ intent. The rain beat upon them, the thunder rumbled. Nicholas licked his lips, his breath coming quickly in his fear, and memory stirred.

A horrible truth filled Erik’s thoughts, a conviction that allowed no excuses for his sibling. Filled with new resolve, Erik gestured impatiently to Ruari that that man should retreat.

Ruari did his bidding, with obvious reluctance.

Erik passed his dagger to his left hand beneath his brother’s avid gaze. He then slowly turned his hand palm up, loosed his fingers and cast the blade away.

Nicholas did not waste a moment. He lunged for Erik, fingers outstretched.

But Erik was prepared. He reached behind himself with lightning speed. He pulled his father’s blade from the back of his belt even as Nicholas’ fingers locked around his throat. He raised the blade and drove it down between Nicholas’ shoulder blades, watching his brother’s eyes widen as the blade sank home.

Nicholas’ grip loosened within their deadly embrace, and his eyes glazed with pain.

“It rains this day,” Erik whispered. “Just as it rained on the day that I was granted these scars.”

Nicholas stared at him, and Erik did not know whether he comprehended his words or not.

Still they had to be uttered.

“In times of peril, a man’s senses become more keen. I remember the sound of my last assailant’s breath, I remember the sound of his boots upon the road, the rhythm of his step. And I remember his smell.” Erik lifted his brother’s limp fingers from his neck and for a moment, he held Nicholas’ weight in his hands. “I smell it again on this day. Surely you did not imagine that I would forget.”

“You were never to know,” Nicholas whispered. “You were never to live that you might remember.”

Erik let his brother plummet to the ground, let him die mired and alone. He stepped over him, pulled his father’s blade from Nicholas’ back, and walked out of the stone circle.

Though he knew he had done what was right, Erik felt no pride in his deed. He wiped the ancient Sinclair weapon in the heather, cleaning the blood of a Sinclair from its blade. He felt tears slide down his face, mingling with the rain, and was aware of Ruari close by his side.

He would never climb to this hill again, for he would never forget that he had spilled the blood that stained it.

The older man laid a hand on Erik’s shoulder and heaved a sigh. “It is a man of merit who can complete an unpleasant task, no less one that needs to be done. Your father would be proud of you, Erik Sinclair, upon that you can rely.”

“My father would weep with me this day, Ruari,” Erik said softly. “There can be no doubt of that.”

* * *

In that same moment, Rosamunde and Tynan were assaulted by a high-pitched scream in Ravensmuir’s caverns.

“Circle of kings wrought of silver fine; Pledge your troth but that ring is MINE!”

A wild swirl of orange erupted in the middle of the cavern, so fiery a hue that Rosamunde thought it had come from the torches. It was no flame, though, but an angry cloud.

“What in the name of God is that?” Tynan cried.

“I fear it is the spriggan,” Rosamunde had time enough to say before the cloud exploded upward. Stone broke from the high arch of the cavern’s ceiling and chunks fell to the ground around them.

“Treacherous thief who would break a vow; I want my ring, I want it NOW!”

But there was no time to respond to the spriggan’s demands. Tynan swore and pushed the ring all the way onto Rosamunde’s finger. She did not know whether he did as much by instinct or choice. He spun and drew his blade. Rosamunde drew her own, though she guessed it was useless against this foe.

Meanwhile, Darg screamed in ear-piercing fury. The cloud that must be her manifestation grew half again as large and fairly boiled against the stone walls. To Rosamunde’s dismay, rock began to fall from the tunnel walls with vigor then, crashing around them and falling into the chasm. A veil of dust rose, but still the cloud grew bigger.

The rock began to groan, as if it could not contain the volume of Darg’s fury. Cracks appeared and spread wildly across the stone surfacing, gaping wider with every scream the spriggan uttered.

“The caverns will collapse!” Tynan shouted over the din. He seized Rosamunde’s hand and they ran together toward the corridor that led upward to Ravensmuir’s solar.

The cloud screamed more sharply and a crack gaped wide in the rock above the door. Rosamunde knew they would not make the portal in time, but both she and Tynan ran more quickly all the same. Right in front of their toes, a massive chunk of stone loosed itself and fell squarely into the corridor, blocking the passage and enfolding them in a cloud of dust.

Tynan did not hesitate. He turned to another portal, one that led to the stables. Lightning seemed to flash over their heads as they turned their steps. It snaked through the dust-filled air, striking the stone with a flash. The stone walls roared and vibrated, and another piece of stone fell to block their course.

“We shall be trapped!” Rosamunde said. She pivoted, even as more stones fell into the other portals, then looked up a fierce snap echoed through the chamber. The very floor shifted with its rumble and Rosamunde feared the worst.

A fissure opened in the high arching ceiling of stone overhead, then gaped wide with alarming speed. Tynan followed her gaze and swore. Far overhead, there was the sound of stone creaking and walls buckling.

It was more than the labyrinth falling in, Rosamunde realized. All of Ravensmuir collapsed around them, the tunnels sealing as the mighty keep was brought to its knees.

And not a single soul knew that she and Tynan were trapped beneath the stone.

“We are lost!” Tynan whispered, making to draw her into his embrace.

Rosamunde was not so prepared to surrender. She knew what the spriggan wanted of her, and the fairy had loosed her ship from the fog. The debt had to be paid. She pulled the ring from her finger that Tynan had just place there, and cast it into the midst of the angry orange cloud that assaulted them.

“What is this madness that you do?” Tynan cried and dove after the silver ring. “That is my mother’s ring!”

“Leave it!” Rosamunde cried over the cracking of stone, but he did not heed her. She saw him fall to his knees, desperately seeking the ring in the rubble. She glanced upward at the crumbling stone, then about herself. “Look there, Tynan!” she cried in sudden relief. “We missed one portal!”

And indeed there was one, gleaming with a strange golden light as if it would beckon them closer.

Tynan glanced up. “That is no passage I know.”

“Nonetheless it is there.”

“You know not where it leads.”

“It scarce matters!”

“I do not like the look of it,” he insisted.

“I do not like the look of that!” Rosamunde pointed upward as the ceiling of the grotto began to shift. A hail of small stones scattered over them and she saw blood on Tynan’s temple.

“Tynan, hurry!” Rosamunde shouted and lunged for the gleaming portal, assuming he would follow. She just barely made it through the portal, barely had time to note the curious golden light shining ahead of her, before there was another crack.

A deafening roar filled the cavern she had just left as stone fell with gusto. She choked on the dust and saw that she was alone. Rosamunde peered through the portal, but there was no sign of Tynan, and she knew what she had feared to learn here.

Tynan had, once again, chosen Ravensmuir first.

Rosamunde pivoted, her tears rising with uncharacteristic vigor. Another tumble of stone collapsed in Ravensmuir’s caverns with such vigor that a vengeful deity might be sealing the labyrinth for all eternity. She had no chance to choose her course: a chance chunk of stone struck her brow and Rosamunde Lammergeier knew no more.

* * *

Vivienne was not certain how she would escape with Erik’s daughters. The girls were so young that they could not run or fight: Vivienne would have to defend all three of them as well as ensure their escape. She was not certain that they trusted her—why would they, indeed?—or that they would follow her bidding. She also did not know how she would ensure their safety once she left this party.

Perhaps she could wait until they rode closer to Ravensmuir, or Kinfairlie, then abduct the girls and flee to her family’s care. Of course, that was predicated upon Henry and Arabella riding as far as Kinfairlie.

It seemed that once again she had believed her abilities to be greater than they might prove to be.

Against her every aspiration, Arabella and Henry had taken to arguing over the merits of pausing at the Earl of Sutherland’s abode this night. As the Earl was the sole person of whom Vivienne knew who might recognize Erik’s daughters—though truly, he might not have paid any heed to young girls, given his interest in ensuring succession—this decision was of considerable concern to Vivienne.

She eavesdropped shamelessly, and tried to think of a way to affect the choice they ultimately made. Astrid dozed against her chest, thumb securely in her mouth, while Mairi sat behind her sister, facing Vivienne as well. Vivienne thought the older girl dozed, too, though her fingers still caressed the smooth lines of the silver pin.

“I cannot see the merit of halting at so late an hour,” Henry repeated for at least the sixth time. “It is unseemly to awaken a host late and demand hospitality.”

“Surely you cannot imagine that I will ride in such weather, without so much as a hot meal, a warm bath, and a plump mattress?” Arabella retorted. “The hour is of little import. How are we to affect the distance between abodes? If you had not insisted upon taking these children in our company, we could have been miles further by now.”

“If you had not insisted upon visiting Beatrice of Blackleith, we should not even be in these cold lands.”

“And what was I to do? Rumor abounded about her and her rich domain in the north, and truly, the tales I heard made it sound to be a veritable paradise. I had no choice but to come, especially after I lost that wager with the Countess. Believe me, Henry, I should have dearly loved to have won. It would have done me good to imagine her in this wretched country instead of me. Doubtless she will make merry at my expense. You must ensure that she hears only good about this journey. Perhaps we should tell her that Beatrice’s riches are so great that they cannot be described.” Arabella chuckled at the prospect. “Then she will feel compelled to ride here to see for herself.”

“Tell her whatsoever you feel the need to tell her, my dear. I need only know what I am supposed to say.”

“Henry, you are the most gallant man,” Arabella said, drumming her fingers upon his arm. She lowered her voice to a lusty warble. “Perhaps we should stop at the Earl’s abode and demand his very best bed for our pleasure.”

The squires rolled their eyes and bit back smiles.

“If it would please you, my lady, I believe the children would benefit from a halt this night,” Vivienne dared to say.

“Their temperaments can only improve,” Arabella said haughtily, then waved her hand. “I have no care for their moods, girl. They are your worry until I have need of them. Children should be ignored until they prove useful.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed his small wet party. His gaze lingered overlong upon Vivienne. She thought she put too much weight upon the look in his eyes, but only until he spoke.

“I think the maid makes good sense, Arabella,” Henry mused, though Vivienne doubted that his concern was for the children. “A fine plump bed will suit me well this night.” And he winked boldly at Vivienne as his wife preened, oblivious to his averted gaze.

The two squires nudged each other, then leered at Vivienne, and she guessed that she had truly underestimated the perils of this circumstance.

* * *

Vivienne was gone from her hiding place.

Erik was disquieted by this fact, though there was no sign of her. She might have never been at Blackleith, and her absence had Ruari fretful as well. The horses had returned to the stable from the hill and stood shivering in the rain.

Erik left Ruari outside of Blackleith’s hall. It was overly quiet in the village and he feared what he would find within the hall itself. Ruari stood guard at the portal, and nodded once before Erik slipped into the smoky shadows of the hall.

Not a single torch burned in the great hall, though there were embers glowing still in the fireplace. It was beyond quiet, as if no one was within these walls. No child sobbed or laughed, there was not so much as a breath of some soul sleeping. Fear seized Erik’s heart and he wondered what Beatrice had done with their daughters.

Had she fled south with them, never to be found again?

“I thought you might yet live,” she said so unexpectedly that Erik jumped.

He saw her then, seated in the otherwise empty hall, a cup before her on the board. She was as lovely as ever she had been, though her lips pinched as they once had not done and her eyes seemed more shrewd.

But perhaps he had not seen the truth before him.

Beatrice smiled, as if there had not been so much time and treachery between them, then took a sip from the cup. “The Earl of Sutherland is not a subtle man, at the best of times, and he has asked some pointed questions of late.”

“Where are Mairi and Astrid?”

Beatrice’s smile broadened. “I am surprised that you have any concern for them. Does not every man desire a son?”

“They are my children and you have no right,” Erik began but Beatrice interrupted him.

“It is the last of the wine.” Beatrice rose and strolled toward him, the cup in her hand. She offered it to him. “Do you wish a sip?”

“You greet me solicitously indeed.”

She grimaced. “I suspected that you lived. I feared you to have returned when I saw Ruari. It was inevitable you would battle Nicholas for Blackleith, and just as inevitable that you would triumph.”

She regarded him and he could not guess her thoughts. “You have always had a cursed talent for survival, and Nicholas, despite his many graces, is less of a swordsman than he might be.” She laughed without mirth. “At least with the blade he would raise against you.” She saluted Erik with the cup, then sipped of its contents deeply, watching him over the rim. “How much more interesting it would have been if you had battled Nicholas for me.”

Erik snorted. “Why would I fight for the regard of a woman who cares only for herself?”

Her eyes flashed and he thought that she might strike him. Instead she studied him and grimaced. “You would strike terror into any maiden’s heart, with what has become of your face. Praise be that you will never come to my bed again.” Her smile turned bitter. “But then, thanks to you, neither will Nicholas. I assume you have left him dead?”

“Indeed.”

She averted her face then and he wondered whether she had cared for another soul, after all.

“Where are Mairi and Astrid?”

“Gone.”

“Where?” Erik seized her arm when she did not answer him, forcing her to face him.

Beatrice chuckled. “I do not know. Is that not the beauty of it? I do not know, so I cannot tell you. You may do your worst to me, indeed, you have already taken all that was of merit to me. And I have taken what is of merit to you.”

“You cannot have injured them!”

Beatrice only smiled, smiled with such confidence that Erik longed to shake her until her very bones rattled. “Why should you care? I doubt truly that they are even of your own seed.”

Erik regarded her in shock. “I thought that was but a rumor...”

“A rumor rooted in truth. Surely you did not imagine that you, with your clumsy manner abed and your inability to utter sweet compliments, could sate me? I was a beauty with a hundred suitors at my door! I was sought by barons and princes, I was courted by men from leagues away.” She stepped back and regarded him with disdain. “Yet I wed Erik Sinclair, heir to a modest holding, a man who could not praise a woman with poetry to save his life. Did you never wonder why?”

“Every day I was amazed by my fortune,” Erik said with care.

Beatrice laughed harshly. “Here is my gift to you, husband. I was no maiden when I came to your bed on our nuptial night. Indeed, I feared that I carried the fruit of a man’s seed and I knew better than to vex my own father with such tidings. He would have seen me whipped until I bled, and torn flesh tempts no man. I had to see myself wed and wed in haste, and this was the very moment when you came to my father’s gates, seeking alliance. You were of use to me, Erik Sinclair, no more than that.”

“And once you knew that you bore no child?” Erik asked, wanting all of the truth, no matter how cruel. She could not speak of Mairi, for that child had not come them until they had been married for a year.

Beatrice sauntered back to the head table and granted herself another measure of wine. “You do not mind if I pour for myself, surely? There is a cursed lack of servants in this hall, but that, I understand, has always been Blackleith’s fate.” She spared him an arch glance as she sipped. “When it became clear that I bore no child, I welcomed my lover between my thighs once again. Is it not said that there is but one woman in Christendom who ever denied Nicholas Sinclair? It was simple enough to meet him when we lived in the same abode.”

Erik turned away from these unwelcome tidings, delivered with such glee. “So you did couple with him.”

“Often,” Beatrice said, smacking her lips over both wine and recollection. “It is charming that you are so certain the girls are your own, when I do not share your conviction.”

Erik said nothing, for he was surprised at how little ability she had to injure him.

Beatrice shrugged. “And finally, it did not suit me to have to meet both brothers abed any longer.”

Erik looked up. “You wrought the scheme,” he murmured, seeing now who had aided Nicholas to contrive such a plot. Beatrice smiled. “You brought the missive that was supposed to come from Thomas Gunn. You were the one who urged me to aid my neighbor.”

She laughed. “And you were too fool to see that I deceived you.” She finished her wine, cast the pewter cup in the direction of the board and flung out her hands. “So, now you have reclaimed your deepest desire,” she taunted. “Your larder is barren, your treasury is empty, and your peasants are hungry. Your fields lie untended and you have no seed for the spring. All of your kin is dead, your wife despises you and your children are lost forevermore. How fares your triumphant return to Blackleith, husband?”

Erik sheathed his blade and turned away from her. “It is little different than I expected,” he said softly. “For I learned early in my marriage to expect naught of merit from my spouse. You erred in granting me those daughters, Beatrice, for they are the gold in my treasury.”

“Do you not hear me? They are likely not of your seed!”

“It does not matter. They are mine in the eyes of the law, and mine because I believe them to be so.”

“But they are gone!”

“They cannot be gone far. I shall seek until I find them, and I shall raise them with honor or die in the attempt.”

She lunged after him and seized his shoulder, compelling him to look at her. “I thought you would kill me.”

Erik shook his head. “I have no urge to sully my hands with your blood.”

“Do you not despise me?”

Erik studied his wife and wondered how he had failed to see her selfishness. He shook his head then and plucked her hand from his shoulder. “Nay. I pity you. Farewell, Beatrice.”

With that, he turned to depart Blackleith once again, his wife dismissed from his thoughts. His daughters must be with that noble couple who had ridden to hunt with Nicholas. Surely they would ride south to the Earl of Sutherland’s abode, perhaps even make a halt there. There had been no ship in the harbor, though they could have ridden north to the great abode of the Earl’s kin at Girnigoe.

Between his own talents and those of Ruari, he should be able to discern their direction. His pace quickened with surety and determination to retrieve his daughters before it was too late.

“You wretch!” he heard Beatrice scream from behind him. The pewter cup struck the wall beside his head. Erik jumped at its impact, then glanced back.

Beatrice, her face contorted with fury, dove towards him, a blade held high in her hand. She was cursedly close. Erik realized he had scant time to pull his own blade when he heard a whistle beside his very ear.

A spinning blade flashed past him, the point embedding itself in Beatrice’s chest. She gasped and took a step back, her own hand falling to the blood coursing from the wound.

Erik saw that it was his father’s blade, the sapphire in the hilt glinting as if it winked at him.

Beatrice touched the hilt of the blade sunk into her flesh, coughed, and shook her head. “William always loathed me,” she said, then coughed again. She slumped against the wall, then granted Erik a baleful glance. “Trust him to ensure my demise.”

“It was not William who cast the blade,” Ruari said with disapproval, “though it was doubtless his spirit that guided the blade home. My aim is not so good as that, upon that fact you can rely.” He nodded once at Erik. “Your father could split a hair at forty paces with that blade, to be sure, and he never failed to astound a skeptic with his skill.” Beatrice slumped to the floor, her eyes closing as she coughed more feebly. “I have never made such a good throw, though, to be sure, I never much liked Beatrice myself.”

Erik made to step forward and ease Beatrice to a more comfortable position for her last moments. Ruari stayed him with a touch. “Do not venture near that viper,” he counseled, then nodded at the knife yet in her hand. “She grips the hilt tightly for one so close to death. Leave her be, for she will be dead in truth by the time we return.”

At that, Beatrice opened her eyes slightly and spat at the floor, showing his advice to be good with nary a word. Then her head drooped to her shoulder and Erik believed she knew no more.

He turned his back upon her, though, for his battle was not yet complete. He had to find his daughters, and he hoped that they were not departing too late.

For there was truth in Beatrice’s claim. She had tried to steal all of the promise Erik might find in reclaiming Blackleith, leaving him without affluence, without family, without his own children.

But Erik had witnessed the faith of Vivienne and he would never again be the same. His prospects might look to be dour in this moment, but he knew he would find his daughters.

And he would find Vivienne, whatever had happened to her. He would pursue her to the very ends of the earth, if need be, though he had little to offer her beyond himself.

He could only hope that might suffice.

Chapter Eighteen

To Vivienne’s dismay, the Earl of Sutherland’s gates were barred, and the gatekeeper was disinclined to wake his laird in the middle of the night to please a passing party of travelers. When Henry eloquently protested this miscarriage of Christian charity, the gatekeeper pointed him in the direction of an abandoned barn.

It had a hole in its roof and a rustling plethora of birds in its rafters. The occasional missile was launched from above, landing on the packed earth floor with a wet slap. Arabella chose to argue the matter, but Vivienne was too tired. She carried the girls to a corner less vigorously marked by the birds’ droppings, folded her cloak over them all and went to sleep.

* * *

Vivienne awakened to find a man’s hand upon her breast and a sharp blade kissing her throat. Some hours had passed, she guessed, for it was lighter and the rain fell with less vigor. No thunder rumbled overhead any longer.

And Henry crouched beside her, his breeches loosed to free his prick. It was pale against the darkness and bobbed in anticipation.

“Lift your skirts and be quiet about the matter,” he urged in a whisper.

Vivienne frowned at him, hoping to dissuade him with a bold manner. “Not in front of the children,” she scolded indignantly, not troubling to lower her voice.

The blade dug more demandingly into her throat and Vivienne caught her breath. “You are to be quiet,” Henry insisted. “Or I shall ensure that you are quiet forevermore.”

“But the children...”

“Push them aside. They will never know the difference, and if they do, they will be well prepared for their futures.”

Vivienne caught her breath, so intense was her dislike for this man. She was uncommonly glad that she had accompanied Erik’s daughters, for she would ensure somehow that they were freed from the circle of his influence.

She eased Astrid from her lap, that child whimpering slightly as she was moved. Vivienne hushed her, tucking her more fully into her fur-lined cloak. She lifted Mairi then, who was a much greater burden. Henry let her move sufficiently to tuck the girls beneath the cloak and Vivienne saw the glimmer of Mairi’s eyes as they opened.

She put her hand over the girl’s brow, easing her eyes closed again, and to her relief Mairi followed her bidding.

“That is a fine pin,” Henry said. “You must have pleased some laird well to have been granted a gift of such value.”

“A man of merit surrendered it to me as a keepsake,” Vivienne said.

Henry chuckled. “No doubt he granted a ripe wench like you more than that as a keepsake.”

“He did indeed. He granted me his love and my memories of him. Those are keepsakes beyond price.”

Henry sneered, disinterested in such details. “Aye and you have stolen from your former mistress, as well, I would wager, by the look of your garb. Lift your skirts, wench. Please me well or you will surrender your keepsake, if not more, to my wife. She has a fondness for trinkets, and I have a fondness for granting them to her.” His smile flashed. “They ensure that she asks fewer questions.”

“You will take my life before you take this pin,” Vivienne replied, her voice low with intent.

Henry struck her then, full across the face, then moved so that his weight was atop her. Vivienne cried out and he forced his hand between her teeth. He tasted of perspiration, the weight of him nearly crushing Vivienne, and she felt his prick seeking a harbor between her thighs. She struggled against him, to little avail, furious that she should be so abused.

Then Henry screamed with vigor, ignoring his own command for quiet.

Mairi, who had scampered to Vivienne’s aid, gripped a fistful of his hair and bit his ear again.

“This child is no better than an animal!” Henry cried. He tried to strike the child, his move sufficient that Vivienne could push his weight from her chest. He swung his fist at Mairi and Vivienne slapped his face so hard for endeavoring to strike the child that he took a staggering step backward.

Little Astrid was immediately behind him. She bumped into the back of his knees apurpose and sent him sprawling backward. He fell on his back, his exposed prick dancing in the morning breeze.

The girls giggled and Vivienne could not help but smile. “I thank you for your aid,” she said and they clustered by her side, valiant defenders in truth.

Henry propped himself up on his elbows, anger in his eyes, but Arabella interrupted whatever he might have said. “Henry? Henry! What are you doing out of our bed?” She appeared out of the shadows opposite, her hair askew and her chemise rumpled. “And what is all this noise? Do you not know how early in the day it is? Surely you know by now how desperately I need to have a good night’s sleep?”

Henry’s prick lost its enthusiasm at the sound of his wife’s voice.

Arabella halted beside him, her indignation clear. “Henry!”

That man sat up, passed a hand over his brow, then glowered at Vivienne and the two girls as he fastened his chausses beneath his wife’s cold eye.

He shook a finger, but Vivienne granted him no chance to threaten her.

“Your husband assaults me in the night, my lady, as any person with their wits about them can see,” Vivienne said, certain that no maid had ever dared to utter the truth to Arabella before. The lady knew of her husband’s deeds, though, for she caught her breath and paled. Her lips tightened as she looked down at him. “I am certain that you understand that I will not remain in a household in which I may be attacked in the night.”

“But you cannot leave my service before I am prepared to be rid of you,” Arabella argued, for surely she was one who preferred to have her own way.

“I have every right,” Vivienne retorted. “Your husband has no right to attack me in the night. Further I will take these two children into my custody, for there is no guarantee that they will be spared similar abuse within your household.”

“But they were granted to our custody,” Arabella argued, clearly thinking of the benefit of that donation to the convent when Henry had sins for which to atone.

“And I have wits to know that you do not truly desire them.” Vivienne took the girls by their hands, and they looked up at her. Their cautious optimism fairly broke her heart, for they had been poorly served by recent events. She smiled for each in turn and squeezed their hands, encouraged when they returned that squeeze. “It is my hope to return them to their rightful father.”

“But he is dead, is he not, Henry? Beatrice said her first husband was dead, I am certain of it.”

“Then she lied to you, for he was not dead just yesterday.”

“The pin,” Mairi said, a glow in her voice. She stretched to her toes and Vivienne bent so that the little girl could brush the silver pin with her fingertips. “I remember the pin.”

“Yes, your father gave me his pin. Should Fortune smile upon us, we shall shortly see it back in his hands again.”

“But you cannot do this,” Arabella protested. “You cannot simply decree what shall be. You are merely a maid, albeit once recently come to my service. You should heed me!”

Vivienne stood straight and tall. “I am a noblewoman with as many rights as you hold. My name is Vivienne Lammergeier. If you have cause for complaint with my deeds, you are welcome to bring your plea to the court of my brother, Laird of Kinfairlie. Be warned, however, that he will see justice served.”

With that, Vivienne gathered her cloak and led Erik’s daughters into the first glimmer of morning’s sunlight. She turned their steps toward Blackleith, not caring how long it took her to walk that far.

To make the distance pass more quickly, she began to tell the girls the tale of Thomas the Rhymer.

Thomas had barely met his fairy queen before they heard hoof beats on the road behind them. Vivienne paused, uncertain who might ride before them, and then heard horses racing toward them from ahead as well.

She stood in the middle of the road, her hair unfurled, her boots wet, Erik’s pin upon her cloak, and his daughters holding fast to her hand. She saw the distinctive black hue of Ravensmuir’s stallions before she recognized her brother Alexander’s colors, before she saw her brother Malcolm fast by his side. Elizabeth rode another stallion, a trio of trusted men from Ravensmuir riding the last three. The black stallions fairly breathed fire as they raced down the road, their coats gleaming in the morning light.

Vivienne blinked back tears of joy at the sight of them. “It is my brother come to ensure my welfare,” she said to the girls. “We nothing to fear.” Then she pivoted and knew she had spoken no less than the truth, for Erik Sinclair rode towards her on a chestnut destrier. Ruari Macleod was fast behind him, but Vivienne had eyes only for Erik.

Erik dismounted with a leap and ran the last increment toward her. Mairi shouted in recognition and he lifted her high, then swung her around while she laughed. Astrid was more cautious, her memory shorter, though she reached out and tugged at the ends of his hair.

Then he stood, his children at his knee, his eyes shining a brilliant sapphire. “I have reclaimed suzerainty of Blackleith,” he said, evidently aware of Alexander’s gaze fixed upon him. “And my wife Beatrice is dead. I have little to offer, Vivienne, for my abode is more humble than what you have known, but I love you with all the vigor of my heart.” He stretched his hands out to her even as her heart soared. “Will you wed me in truth, Vivienne Lammergeier?”

There was such a lump in Vivienne’s throat that she could not summon a word in reply. She shook her head in wonderment, her tears falling at the movement, and saw Erik’s dismay. “I will,” she said huskily. “I will, with pleasure.”

And he laughed and caught her fast in his arms, kissing her with such ardor that she did not care who witnessed their embrace.

For against all odds, against even her own expectation, Vivienne’s quest had led her precisely to where she most desired to be.

* * *

It proved that Alexander and Malcolm had left Ravensmuir in pursuit of Erik and Vivienne on the morning after the trio’s escape. Tynan had declined to accompany the party, suggesting that it was time Malcolm assumed such responsibilities. Elizabeth had come in pursuit of Darg, as she was the only one who could see the fairy, and she was disappointed to announce that the spriggan was not in their company.

Erik had already guessed as much.

The group from Kinfairlie had lingered at the abode of the Earl of Sutherland, certain that Vivienne and Erik must pass that way or arrive there eventually. Alexander had also brought back the steeds that the Earl had lent to Erik and Ruari, which relieved Erik mightily. They all returned there, once reunited.

The Earl, it proved, was well pleased with Erik’s return, for he had numerous concerns about Blackleith’s administration. A party was dispatched to retrieve the bodies of Nicholas and Beatrice, to see them honorably buried, and to loose the two maids. Those women were delighted to have escaped the household of Henry and Arabella, and were quick to offer to serve at Blackleith.

And to the delight of all—and the particular approval of Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie—the Earl of Sutherland saw fit to have Erik and Vivienne wed in his own chapel. The banns were waived by the priest and Erik overheard the Earl telling Vivienne that a son would be a welcome addition indeed.

* * *

On the morning after the celebration of his second nuptial vows, Erik Sinclair arose early. He sat for a long moment and watched the first sunlight caress Vivienne’s cheek, smiling at how deeply she slept.

They had loved long into the night before and he resolved to let her slumber late if she so desired. They need make no haste back to Blackleith.

He left their chamber, well-content, and checked upon his daughters. They slept curled together, Astrid still sucking her thumb. Mairi’s eyes opened as he watched them and she lifted her hands to him, as she had when she had been tiny. Erik picked her up, caring naught for her weight, and tucked her against his hip. She laid her head upon his shoulder, as trustingly as if he had never been gone, and the sweet smell of her nigh rent Erik’s heart in two.

He broke his fast at the Earl’s board, Mairi on his knee. There were few awake so early, and those who sat beside him said little. He accepted a few belated congratulations and shook the hands of a few men, both familiar and unknown to him.

Mairi was quick to steal his comb of honey, mischief dancing in her eyes at her own success, and Erik was content to let her have it.

When he rose from the board, the Earl’s cook came to his side. “The Earl has said as I should offer you some food, sir, both for your journey home to Blackleith and a wee bit for the winter ahead.”

Erik nodded, pleased to accept. “I have no inkling of the inventories we will find there, so your offer is most welcome.”

The plump cook beamed and flicked a finger beneath Mairi’s chin. “Winter will be at our doors soon enough, sir, and the bairns have need of a hot meal each day.”

“I can aid you,” Erik offered but the cook shook her head.

“I shall have it brought to you, sir, though you shall have to find a way to carry it. I have not a sack in this house that can be spared.”

“My saddlebags have little of merit in them. I will clean them out.”

The cook nodded and bustled away. Erik collected his saddlebags and sat in the corner of the hall. Mairi hunkered down beside him, examining each item that he removed, then waiting expectantly for the next.

The bag Ruari had taken on the ship had little enough in it, but the other, which had arrived with Fafnir, was still heavy. There were several wrinkled apples within it as well as a chunk of bread hard enough to be used as a weapon. The grappling hook was still there and might be of use in future. The ale in the leather bottle did not have a smell that invited a man to partake of it.

“What is this?” Mairi demanded, wrinkling her nose at the smell of some bundle. She turned it impatiently in her small hands, so persuaded was she that Erik must have brought her some treasure or trinket.

He wished he had done so but knew he had naught that might intrigue her.

Erik echoed her expression, hoping to make her smile at least. “Very old cheese, perhaps more aged than you.”

“It smells.”

“Indeed it does. I doubt that even the Earl’s hounds will eat it,” Erik said and she laughed. She scampered across the hall then, unfurling the piece of cheese as she went, and presented it to one of the Earl’s hounds. That dog sniffed it but once, then glanced away with disdain.

Mairi returned undaunted and gave the piece of cheese back to Erik, who had no desire for it but accepted it anyway. “He does not like it,” she said. She dug in the bag and pulled out the second of the two chemises the Earl had granted to him. They wrinkled their noses in unison when she shook out the garment.

“We shall never get the smell of cheese out of that!” Erik said and Mairi cast it aside.

“Whose is it?”

“It was mine. The Earl lent it to me.”

“Shall I give it back to him?”

“I think not,” Erik said and they shared a smile. “Let him think it lost.”

“It will be our secret,” his eldest daughter informed him solemnly, unaware of how precious such secrets were to her father. She turned her attention back to the bag, but found little more of interest.

Indeed, everything in the bag was redolent of old cheese. Erik left it open for the moment, hoping the smell would diminish before the cook brought the food for him.

“But what of this one?” Mairi demanded, having turned her attention to the first bag.

“There is naught left in there,” Erik said, and fanned the flap of the redolent saddlebag optimistically. It appeared to make no difference in the smell.

“Of course there is,” Mairi insisted, then held out her hand. “What is this?” Something smooth and red gleamed against her palm, its resemblance to a drop of blood nigh stopping Erik’s heart in fear.

But it was not blood. It was a gleaming droplet, to be sure, and one as red as fresh blood. But it was hard, like a jewel, and as cold as ice.

“What is it?” Mairi asked again when Erik turned it in his hands.

“It looks like a gem,” he said. “Though I have never seen it before.”

“Perhaps it was given to you while you were not looking,” Mairi suggested, eyes alight. “Perhaps someone hid it in your bag so that you could give it to me.” She smiled then, fully persuaded of her notion.

And Erik had an idea then of what his daughter had found. The gem was cold, after all, and of a red red hue. He closed his hand over it while he thought and when he opened his hand to consider it again, the drop had grown.

It looked now like the bud of a flower, and Erik smiled. The fairy Darg must have granted him a boon in exchange for saving her life in the cavern, for she alone could have given him the red red rose wrought of ice that he needed to grant his new wife her every desire.

“What is it? I think you know,” Mairi accused with childish conviction.

Erik smiled. “I think I do.” He picked up his daughter, holding the fairy gem fast in his hand. “Let us get Astrid, and go to Vivienne, and she will tell us a tale.”

“Is it the tale about Thomas the Rhymer?”

Erik smiled, for his daughters already pestered Vivienne to recount that tale again and again. “Nay, not that one.”

“Is it a tale about the red drop?”

“It is that and more.” He tapped Mairi’s nose with a fingertip. “And if you are very good and listen very intently, it may well be that this magic stone—for that is what it is—will do something very special.”

“As a gift for me?”

“As a gift for all of us, and a reminder that there is much we cannot see or explain.”

In moments, they were all together in the chamber he and Vivienne had shared, the girls tucked into Vivienne’s fur-lined cloak and their expressions expectant. Erik laid the gem upon the floor before them and pulled all three of them into his embrace. Vivienne laid her head upon his shoulder, her smile telling him that she too had guessed the import of the gem.

“Once upon a time, there was a distant keep known as Kinfairlie,” she began. “And that keep was burned to the ground. It was rebuilt by the Laird of Ravensmuir, a tall and handsome man whose wife was the sole surviving descendant of Kinfairlie, and he had her legacy rebuilt, it is said, merely to see her smile.”

“A nice man,” Mairi said, nestling deeper into the cloak.

“A kindly man indeed,” Vivienne agreed, sharing a smile with Erik. He watched his daughters, knowing that Vivienne already held them in thrall with her tales, and knowing that they would come to think of her as their true mother in little time. He leaned back and watched the red gem, which had already begun to sprout another petal.

“Kinfairlie had a castellan to mind its halls and storerooms while the laird and lady were not there, a castellan who held the keys to every door in the keep,” Vivienne continued. “And that castellan had both a wife and a daughter, a beautiful daughter, a daughter who loved to play in the castle. As it was newly built and it was assumed that she could find no trouble within its walls—and truly, it must be said, because she had more than a measure of persuasive charm—she was allowed to go wheresoever she would within Kinfairlie’s walls.”

The red gem already had a greater resemblance to a bud, though the bud was yet small. Erik saw that his daughters’ eyes were closing, that Vivienne concentrated on the telling of her tale, and he savored the promise of their surprise.

The gem fattened, as a bud will before it opens.

“But what the castellan and his wife did not know was that there was an old tale about Kinfairlie, a rumor that Kinfairlie was a portal between the realms of fairy and that of men,” Vivienne said and both girls opened their eyes at that to regard her with awe. “Further, it had been known to happen that a fairy suitor spied a mortal lass through that portal and lost his heart utterly with a single glance. It was said in the village that such fairy men courted their mortal sweethearts for three nights, then captured them forevermore, leaving a bride price of a single red red rose wrought of ice.”

* * *

So they passed a good portion of the morning, the sunlight playing upon the hair of Erik’s wife and his daughters, Vivienne’s tale holding them ensnared within a cocoon of myth.

And when the last word of the tale had crossed Vivienne’s lips, Erik indicated the gem with a single gesture. He savored the wonderment of his three companions, for they had been so enthralled with the tale that they had not noted its transformation.

The gem had become a red red rose, one so cold that it might have been wrought of ice, and when Vivienne lifted it in marvel, Erik saw the glimmering puddle it left upon the floor.

“You brought me this,” Vivienne said, her smile all the thanks that he could ever need.

“Your bride price,” Erik said, his words uncommonly hoarse. “Though I am no fairy suitor, and I would offer you more than three nights of courtship.”

Vivienne laughed. “The rose tells no lie, all the same. We are destined lovers...”

“And our paths entwined forevermore,” Erik agreed, just before he claimed Vivienne’s lips with a kiss.

For that was a good portent indeed.

The Snow White Bride

The Laird of Kinfairlie has helped his sisters, each a gem in her own right, to find husbands. Now the laird himself seeks to wed, and pins his hopes on The Snow White Bride.

Lady Eleanor knows better than to dream of romance and love. Married twice to secure her father’s alliances, she has learned that she is desirable only for her fortune. When the Laird of Kinfairlie’s sisters ask her to wed their brother, Alexander, Eleanor agrees, expecting only to save herself from danger. But Alexander is like no man she’s known before, a man more interested in courting her smile than her obedience, a man who values her counsel as much as her newly awakened passion...and a man unaware that Eleanor is the key to a fortune that could ensure the future of everything he holds dear.

Now, ruthless enemies will stop at nothing to secure Eleanor’s capture. Will she dare to trust her new husband before it’s too late for her, for Alexander, and for Kinfairlie?

Chapter One

Kinfairlie, Scotland

December 24, 1421

The snow was falling fast and thick, the starless sky was darker than indigo, and it was well past midnight when Eleanor knew that she could flee no further. The small village that rose before her seemed heaven-sent: it was devoid of tall walls and barred gates. She did not believe that it truly could be this peaceful anywhere in Christendom, but the town’s tranquility was seductive all the same.

She did not know its name and she did not care. She spied the church and decided immediately that this sleeping town, with its quiet surety that the world was good, would be the place she chose to rest.

The night would not last much longer, for darkness already gave way to dawn’s light. Eleanor did not know where she would go from here, but knew she could make no decision when she was so exhausted.

The church portal was unlocked, and Eleanor sighed with relief as one last fear was proven groundless. She stepped into its embracing shadows and let the door close heavily behind her. She waited, half-expecting the illusion of tranquility to be shattered, but only silence reached her ears. She stood on the threshold and inhaled deeply of the scent of beeswax candles, the air of prayer and devotion, the aura of a holy place.

Sanctuary.

There was a single small glass pane over the altar, and the light cast by the snow illuminated it and the chapel’s bare interior. It was a humble church, to be sure, for she could see its emptiness even in the shadows. The altar was devoid of chalice and monstrance, evidence that even this community believed that treasures should be locked away.

Eleanor spied the bench near the altar, perhaps one used by the priest, and eased herself onto it. She sat down and stopped running for the first time in what seemed an eternity.

Then she listened, fearing the worst.

There was no sound at all beyond the pounding of her heart. No hoof beats echoed in pursuit. No hounds bayed as they found her scent. No men shouted that they had spied her footprints.

The rapidly falling snow might prove a blessing, for it would quickly hide her path and disguise her scent. She sat, intending to wait the necessary interval until she knew that she was safe.

Eleanor felt every ache in her exhausted body, and she realized only now how cold she had become. She could not feel her fingertips, so she crossed her arms and pressed her hands into her underarms. She supposed that her belly must be empty, but she was too numb to be certain. She had a keen thirst, to be sure.

Had it only been three days and nights since everything had changed, and changed irrevocably? She shied away from considering what would happen to her now, was too tired to speculate beyond the nigh impossible goal of escape.

Instead, she sat and marveled that she could hear only the faint roll of the sea. It was a gentle sound, its effect not unlike a lullaby. Was it possible that Ewen’s kin had abandoned the hunt for her?

Eleanor could not believe as much. She sat vigilant and she listened, but slowly, she began to feel warmer. That warmth betrayed her, undermined her resolve to remain awake, coaxed her to succumb to exhaustion. She fought against slumber, but she had endured too much of late. It was not long before she gathered her booted feet beneath her, wrapped her ermine-lined cloak more tightly about herself, and dared to consider sleeping for the first time since Ewen had died.

Although she murmured a prayer, Eleanor did not pray for her husband’s recently departed soul. She knew that Ewen was lost beyond redemption, she knew that he roasted in hell.

Worst of all, Eleanor knew that, deep in her heart, she was glad. She was also sufficiently wicked to believe that he deserved no less.

With the dawn, she would begin to atone for her sins of thought and deed. In this moment, she managed only to draw her hood over her hair before her eyes closed and she welcomed the bliss of sleep.

* * *

The first morning services in Kinfairlie’s chapel were attended mostly by the women, both from the keep and from the village, and though it was the day of Christmas Eve, this morning was no different.

Madeline arrived with her sisters: Vivienne, Annelise, Isabella and Elizabeth. Both Madeline and Vivienne were ripening with child, though the other sisters were yet maidens. They were a noisy party, for Madeline and Vivienne had not been home to Kinfairlie since their nuptials earlier in the year, and all five sisters chattered even as they arrived in the village chapel.

The woman kneeling before the altar started at the sound of their arrival. She caught her breath and glanced over her shoulder, fear etched on her features.

She was so beautiful that Madeline gaped in astonishment.

And she was a stranger. There were few strangers in Kinfairlie, particularly at this time of the year. Madeline was intrigued, as was probably every other soul who followed the Lammergeier sisters into the chapel.

This woman was no maiden, for she wore a gossamer veil and circlet over her hair. What Madeline could spy of the woman’s hair was more golden of hue than flaxen. In that moment that she stared at the sisters, Madeline noted skin so fair that the woman might have been carved of alabaster. Her eyes were a startlingly vivid green and her lips as red as rubies. She might have been of an age with Madeline.

But the stranger’s fear was almost palpable. She pivoted abruptly after scanning the arrivals. She drew the hood of her sapphire cloak over her hair to hide her features, and bent to her prayers once more. Madeline wondered what horrors this woman had faced that she should be so fearful of strangers.

The woman’s cloak was remarkable in itself, of wool spun finer than fine, and trimmed with a king’s ransom in ermine. The stranger was noble, then, for no common person could have afforded such a garment.

Yet she was unattended, and there was no fine horse outside the chapel. Surely such a woman would not travel on foot, or alone?

Not unless she was in dire peril. Madeline caught her breath at the simple truth of it, and immediately she yearned to be of aid. Indeed, any other noblewoman would have rapped on the gates of the keep and demanded hospitality of a fellow Christian.

But this woman had no steed. Her boots were mired, there was dirt on the hem of her cloak. She must have been afraid to ask for help, which said little good about her circumstance.

Father Malachy granted the praying woman a benign smile, then frowned at the boisterous sisters. Madeline and her sisters meekly genuflected and became silent as mice as they took their places at the front of the chapel, alongside the stranger. Madeline could fairly feel the questions of her sisters, and was not surprised to find herself eased closest to the stranger by mutual and silent consent.

As eldest, she had been appointed to learn more.

The service seemed impossibly long, and Madeline found herself thinking more about the stranger beside her than her prayers. Finally, the priest was done and the woman tried to leave the chapel immediately behind him.

The sisters had other ideas. The stranger jumped when Madeline touched her elbow, even with the barrier of that cloak between them. When the stranger paused, Annelise and Isabella slipped around her to block her exit from the chapel.

“You are unknown here,” Madeline said.

The woman’s eyes widened at the realization that she had been surrounded, though she nodded acknowledgement. “I mean no harm to any soul. I halted only to pray.” She tried to leave, but the sisters stood resolute.

“Someone means harm to you, though,” Vivienne said with conviction. “You would not have sought sanctuary in the house of God otherwise.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who are you, and with whom are you allied?”

“Do you not know where you have come?” Madeline asked.

The woman shook her head.

That in itself was intriguing. She must be a far from home indeed. What would compel her to flee into the night without a clear destination? Madeline herself had done as much once and felt a certain kinship with this woman as a result.

“I am Madeline FitzHenry, once of Kinfairlie and now Lady of Caerwyn,” she said, softening her words with a smile. “These are my sisters. We are gathered to celebrate the Yule together in our ancestral home of Kinfairlie and mean no harm to any guest of our hall.”

“Kinfairlie.” The woman’s gaze flicked between them. “You must be kin with the Lammergeier then. I have heard tales of them.”

“Lammergeier is our family name,” Vivienne agreed.

The woman took a deep breath as if to steady herself, as if the news of where she stood was unwelcome. “The Lammergeier are said to ally long with no man.”

“That is somewhat of a harsh charge from one who does not know us...” Isabella began, but Madeline laid a hand upon her arm to silence her.

“Of what import is our alliance? Have you need of aid?” Madeline asked. “Do you fear someone who might have allies in these parts?”

The woman gathered her skirts and made again to leave. “I thank you for your concern, but it would be safer for you to know no more of me.” She pivoted and, faced with her determination, Isabella and Annelise stepped out of her path. The chapel had emptied now, save for the sisters and this woman who strode away from them with the grace of a queen.

“And what would be safer for you?” Madeline asked quietly, her words carrying through the chapel.

“Tell us who you flee and why,” Isabella said, always one unafraid of such details.

The woman paused, seemingly tempted. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

“Who else can you trust?” Madeline asked. “You have not so much as a steed, let alone a maid, to accompany you. I would wager that you cannot run much farther than you already have. I would further wager that you are in peril. We offer aid to you.”

The woman’s strength seemed to falter then, and she looked at the stone floor. Madeline stretched a consoling hand toward her, but then the stranger straightened and tossed back her hood.

She spoke with a regal resolve. “My tale is not that uncommon. My father wed me to a man of his choice, a man far far older than myself. When I was widowed some years later, my father wed me to another man.”

“Who also died,” Vivienne said, guessing the next part of the story as she was inclined to do.

“But not before my father himself died. I have no other kin than my husband’s family: my mother died long ago and neither of my husbands granted me a child.”

“Surely your dowry once again becomes your own?” Isabella asked.

The woman’s smile was wry. “Surely not.” Something flashed in her eyes then, a determination that was greater than any fear, and Madeline guessed that the woman did not like her husband’s kin. Her dislike must have been potent for her to abandon her dowry.

“It has long been said that a woman weds once for duty and once for love,” Vivienne said. “To be wed twice for duty is beyond expectation.”

“And against my every desire!” the woman said, her eyes flashing. “I have done all that I can to avoid such a fate. I have left my old abode with only the garb upon my back, I have abandoned what should be my own, but it is not sufficient for them. They pursue me, like hounds at the hunt. Indeed, I dare not confess the name of that holding to any soul lest they find me again.” Her lips tightened with a quiver that rent Madeline’s heart.

“You have need of protection, not further flight,” Madeline said.

“Who would be so fool as to protect me?”

“A new husband would defend you,” Vivienne said.

“One of your own choice!” Elizabeth interjected.

“Impossible.” The woman shook her head. “I am sorry. I should not have burdened you with my woes.”

“But where will you go?” Elizabeth asked.

“As far as I must,” she said, and gathered her cloak about herself as she hastened down the aisle. “I dare not linger here longer. Only as far as Kinfairlie,” she whispered, almost to herself. “They will be fast behind me.” She drew up her hood and reached for the handle upon the heavy wood door.

“We cannot let her go,” Madeline said and her sisters nodded agreement. “She will never flee further than they can follow.”

“Surely her fears are overwrought,” Vivienne said. “Her husband’s kin might have threatened her, and they might even follow her, but as soon as she wed another man, they would abandon the chase. It would not be reasonable to do otherwise, especially if they already hold her dowry.”

“Doubtless she has had little chance to muster her thoughts,” Madeline mused, feeling sympathy for the woman. “I wonder when last she ate a meal.”

“Or slept, without fearing that her avaricious kin would pounce upon her in the night.” Vivienne shivered at the prospect.

“She has need of a stalwart defender,” Elizabeth said with gusto. “Like a valiant knight in an old tale, one who will vanquish all of her enemies.”

“It will be a rare and honorable man who takes her cause,” Annelise agreed.

“It will be a bold man, unafraid to face any foe to see his lady’s safety assured,” Elizabeth said, her love of tales evident. “He will slaughter dragons for her, and send evil flying from the gates!”

“There are no dragons to be bested,” Isabella said wryly. “Only greedy kin.”

Madeline exchanged a smile with Vivienne as an idea apparently came to them both of one accord. “Hmmm,” Madeline mused. “A brave knight, unwed but in possession of his inheritance so entitled to wed.”

“A man with a reputation for ensuring justice is served,” Vivienne said as her smile broadened.

“A man who would court the lady’s favor, and treat her with the honor she is due,” Annelise contributed, as she clearly discerned Madeline’s thoughts.

“Would it not be perfect if we knew such a man?” Madeline said.

“Especially if the nuptial vows of such a man would ensure that his debt against his own sisters is paid in full?” Vivienne said.

Elizabeth began to laugh, though Isabella still appeared to be confused.

“Alexander found husbands for us when we had no desire of them,” Madeline explained. “I say we return the favor, and aid this beleaguered noblewoman at the same time.”

“It would serve Alexander well to taste his own dish,” Elizabeth said with some heat. “Though I think her too fine for him.”

“The lady herself must agree,” Vivienne said, ignoring this. Elizabeth had become quite vexed with Alexander of late, and was increasingly inclined to voice her unflattering opinion of him.

“Lady!” Madeline cried and the sisters gave chase as one. “Stay your flight!”

They burst out of the chapel in pursuit. The woman paused in the bailey, the fresh snow as high as her ankles. She glanced back, as if afraid to hope that any soul might assist her.

“My brother, Laird of Kinfairlie, has need of a bride,” Madeline said. The sisters surrounded the woman once again, their eyes alight with the perfection of their scheme.

“He is a man of honor,” Vivienne said, “and one who will see you protected. He is not so hard upon the eyes, and can be charming.”

“He is a bit mischievous,” Isabella felt obliged to warn the woman.

“But he takes his responsibilities most seriously and serves Kinfairlie well as its laird,” Annelise said.

“But you cannot expect him to wed me. You scarce know me and he does not know me at all.”

“Marriages are arranged all the time,” Vivienne said with a smile and Elizabeth laughed. The woman looked between them, not understanding the reference. Vivienne stepped forward and looped her arm through the other woman’s elbow. “Come and look upon him. If he meets with your favor and wedding him seems to you a suitable scheme...”

Madeline took the woman’s other arm. “Then you may rely upon us to arrange the details.”

“There will be guests aplenty in the hall this night,” Vivienne said. “No one will note another, and if you decide against this course, you can travel onward on the morrow.”

The stranger nodded at this plan, but Madeline was not fooled by her apparent reserve. There was new vigor in her step, just for having a choice, and Madeline knew that Alexander would be at his amiable best this night. Her brother might try to delay his duty to wed, he might even protest the sisters’ interference, but once this beauty was in his bed, once he had a child to bounce upon his own knee, he would thank her and Vivienne for their aid in finding him such a bride.

Madeline was certain of it.

* * *

Alexander Lammergeier, Laird of Kinfairlie, had had his fill of responsibility. The accounts for Kinfairlie would never balance, not without a massive financial gain from some unanticipated source. He had seen two sisters married this year, on the counsel of those who knew more of running an estate than he, and could not for the life of him see what fiscal benefit had been derived from having two less mouths to feed. There were dozens yet residing within his walls, after all.

The sound of merrymaking rose from Kinfairlie’s hall below. It was Christmas Eve, and he was laboring over Kinfairlie’s books, trying to find a stray denier.

There were no stray deniers. Alexander knew it well. And further, he despised being Laird of Kinfairlie. He wanted his parents back, hale and hearty; he wanted to ask his father how that man had managed the burden of responsibility; he wanted to know what he should do when the seed was washed away and the peasants who relied upon him were left hungry.

Further, he wanted his Uncle Tynan, upon whom he had heavily relied after his parents’ demise, to walk out of the grotto beneath Ravensmuir and explain that he was not dead after all. He wanted his Aunt Rosamunde, also lost in the rubble that had been Ravensmuir, to leap from beneath the stones, to explain that tales of her death were mere exaggeration, and to present an ancient relic along with its tale.

Alexander wanted answers, he wanted counsel, he wanted the merriment of his former life back.

Yet all Alexander had were burdens. His sisters were no longer foils for his teasing or even victims of his jests, but maidens for whom suitable husbands had to be found. He had seen the two eldest of his sisters wed, but did not for a moment deny that Fortune had smiled upon him in those two circumstances. He had not handled those nuptial arrangements well and it was good luck alone that had seen Madeline and Vivienne happily wed.

His two brothers had been dispatched to Inverfyre and Ravensmuir to train, at Uncle Tynan’s suggestion, which had relieved Alexander of the cost of supporting them but also of the merriment of their company. Worse, Malcolm stood heir to Ravensmuir, though he was younger and less knowledgeable than Alexander—and he came to Alexander for counsel the older brother could seldom give. Ross was at Inverfyre for the foreseeable future, training to earn his spurs, and though Alexander thought this a great favor by their uncle, the Hawk of Inverfyre, still he missed Ross’ companionship.

Alexander was lonely, he was frustrated and he saw no promise for change in his future. He had failed on all accounts, when once he had been able to do nothing wrong. He scowled at the cursed books, listened to the music being wrought by musicians he had no notion of how he might pay, and swore with vigor.

It was Christmas. He had seen fit to entertain Kinfairlie’s peasants, as was traditional, despite the dearth of coins in his treasury. He might as well enjoy the festivities himself.

It might be the last merry Christmas at Kinfairlie.

Alexander slammed the ledgers of his abode with a vengeance, then dropped them back into the trunk where they were stored. He savored their resounding thump, then dropped the lid on the trunk so that it slammed. He locked it and only just stopped himself from hurling the key out the window into the snow that had not ceased falling for an entire day.

Indeed, he had lifted his fist when his castellan’s discreet cough halted his gesture.

Alexander pivoted smoothly, slid the key into his purse and smiled at Anthony as if that man had not interrupted a healthy impulse. “Good evening, Anthony. I trust all is well in the hall?”

Anthony surveyed the chamber, his white brows bristling in disapproval. “Well enough, my lord. Might I conclude that you have balanced Kinfairlie’s accounts for the year?”

“You might,” Alexander said with a cheer he had not felt in considerable time. “But you would be in error.”

Anthony scowled. “Your father would never have left his chamber until his labor was done.”

“My father is dead, and though his habits were exemplary, they will not necessarily be mine.” Alexander swept past the older man and sniffed appreciatively. “Venison! What a marvel you are, Anthony.”

“The miller felled two bucks, supposedly by accident, my lord.” Anthony frowned more deeply. “There is certainly more to the tale than what we were told, for all know that common people have no right to hunt deer, and it is difficult to mistake a deer for anything other than what it is. I would suggest that we delve to the bottom of the tale lest all think they can hunt without repercussions...”

“I suggest that we enjoy the meat and the season and leave the matter be,” Alexander said with resolve.

“But...”

“But they are hungry, Anthony. The harvest has been poor and most gardens have not prospered either. It is to their merit that they share the spoil with all.”

The older man straightened with disapproval. “Your father would never have allowed such a transgression against his rights...”

“Nor would he have allowed those beneath his hand to starve.” Alexander softened his tone and laid a hand upon the older man’s shoulder. “This year has been most uncommon, Anthony, and I will not punish my guests for ensuring that the board groans this night. Christmas is a season of celebration and forgiveness. Let us welcome the year with hope.”

Anthony took a deep breath, but Alexander did not want to argue about his breach of convention again. Instead of choosing a select few peasants from Kinfairlie village to feast in the laird’s hall, Alexander had invited them all. The population of the village had dwindled in the past year due to the poor conditions and he wanted every man, woman and child to share in whatever largesse he could offer. They had been arriving steadily since morning mass, bringing their napkins and their spoons and undoubtedly their appetites. Many had brought the chickens and candles they owed to the laird for this feast.

Alexander had given his villagers what he could—he had ensured that they had justice, he had tried to supply seed for the fields, and no matter what it cost, he would see their bellies filled this night.

It was Christmas. Let Anthony say what he might.

Alexander’s brother-in-law Rhys FitzHenry and sister Madeline had arrived the day before and, at Alexander’s request, Rhys had ridden to hunt with two of Kinfairlie’s falcons and the men in his party. He had returned with four dozen rabbits.

Five baskets of eels had been collected at Inverfyre by Alexander’s sister Vivienne and her husband Erik on their journey south to Kinfairlie, and Vivienne had brought half a dozen goats heavy with milk to swell the ranks of livestock at Kinfairlie.

Alexander himself had sent to York for six cured hams, and the peasant children had foraged for the eggs of wild fowl. The musicians had arrived this very day with the hams and requested accommodation and alms for the season, which Alexander had not been able to protest.

The most startling facet of all of this was that Alexander even found himself thinking in inventories. He tallied and calculated, concluding that there was food enough for the considerable company for perhaps four days, at which point, he would have a problem.

At least the problem was four days away.

Alexander marched past his astonished castellan, then paused at the top of the stairs. He snapped his fingers and pivoted to face Anthony, whose silvery brows had formed a single line of bushy reproach. “There are two casks of wine yet in the cellar, Anthony, according to the ledgers. Please have them brought to the hall and opened this night.”

Those brows shot skyward. “My lord...”

“Do as I bid you immediately, Anthony,” Alexander interjected crisply, knowing that his castellan was as surprised by his command as his tone. “And be sure to taste the wine yourself before allowing it to be poured.”

The wine would do his proper castellan good, in Alexander’s opinion. He strode down the stairs, the music lightening his heart, and resolved to have a measure of that wine himself.

* * *

Alexander was pleased to note how his sisters had brought greens into the hall, for he had been so immersed in his books that he had forgotten about this ritual. Hundreds of candles burned and the Yule log, a particularly massive specimen which would surely last for the entire fortnight, burned on the hearth. Mercifully, some soul had recalled this ritual, as well.

The hall was warm and golden, filled to bursting with trestle tables and chattering people. He could smell the roasted meat and the musicians led the assembly in a merry tune. His sisters were adorned in their best and laughing at the high table. Even the sight of the unbound tresses of his three maiden sisters failed to trouble him on this night.

Alexander might have paused there on the stairs to savor the sight, but to his surprise, the detection of his presence in his own hall was greeted with a rowdy cheer. The peasants of Kinfairlie rose to their feet, turned and lifted their cups of ale in salute. “My lord!” they cried as one.

They saluted him. Tears pricked Alexander’s eyes at this unexpected tribute. What had he done to deserve their respect? He had tried, to be sure, but the Fates had conspired against any success. Ever one for a jest, he turned and looked behind himself, summoning a hearty laugh from the assembly.

“God bless the Laird of Kinfairlie!” cried the miller, who had evidently been appointed spokesman. “The fairest laird that ever there was.” There was another ripple of laughter and the miller flushed. “I mean, of course, that his courts are fair and that justice is found in his courts.” The miller grinned. “Though my wife tells me that he is not hard upon the eyes either.”

The assembly laughed. “A wife is what our laird needs,” cried one bold soul.

“Nay, a dozen bairns is what he needs,” shouted another, but the miller held his hand up for silence.

He sobered as he held Alexander’s gaze. “It has been a year of challenges unexpected at Kinfairlie. Though none of us would have wished for the sudden loss of our former laird and his lady -” many in the company crossed themselves in reference to the deaths of Alexander’s parents “- I have been chosen of all of us to thank you for so boldly taking on your duties, sir.”

Alexander inclined his head. “I was raised to assume this duty, as well you know.”

The miller shook his head. “Few men could have faced this past year with such courage, my lord, no less with such grace and generosity. You serve your father’s memory well, Alexander Lammergeier, and may you prosper at Kinfairlie for years untold.” With that, the miller lifted his cup higher.

“Long live the Laird of Kinfairlie!” cried one soul and the company echoed the blessing. They lifted their cups in salute, then drank heartily.

Alexander was deeply touched, though he characteristically hid his response with a jest. “I thank you kindly,” he said, then bowed deeply to the company. “But you should know that I called for the wine to be opened before I knew that you meant to greet me thus.”

The assembly laughed and the musicians sang a ditty on the merits of wine, a comparative rarity in these parts. Alexander made his way through the company, welcoming peasants by name and exchanging Christmas blessings. He found himself laughing at one tale and pinching a child’s plump cheek, enjoying himself despite the odds.

He glanced up, feeling the weight of someone’s gaze upon him, and met the steady stare of a woman he did not know. She must have been among the entourages of Madeline or Vivienne, perhaps a friend of one of his sisters. Alexander was intrigued by the very sight of her. She watched him from the high table, her eyes the clearest green he had ever seen.

But there was a sadness in her eyes and a downward curve to her lips that snared Alexander’s attention. She averted her gaze as soon as their gazes met and eased herself into the shadows. She was veiled as a married woman, but no man attended her. Worse, she was not merry on this night of festivity, and Alexander decided then what his mission would be.

He would make this lady smile. Once, he had been good at coaxing women’s laughter. Once he had savored feminine companionship. His pulse quickened at the challenge, for he had not lingered overmuch with women this past year. It would be good to prove—if only to himself—that he had not sacrificed all of himself to his duties as laird.

The castellan brought him a goblet of ruby red wine, that man’s lips still taut. “I thank you, Anthony.” Alexander raised the cup to his guests assembled in Kinfairlie’s hall. “And I thank you not only for your kind salute, but for joining me on this night of nights. I bid you be merry in Kinfairlie’s hall, one and all, and may this Christmas Eve feast be but the first of many we share.”

The assembly roared agreement and raised their cups, then drank heartily of Alexander’s ale and wine. Alexander raised his cup to the beauteous lady at his board, who feigned ignorance of his salute. She sipped his toast and her cheeks pinkened slightly, though, which was progress of a kind.

Alexander Lammergeier would not be so easily defeated as that.

Indeed, he purposefully made his way to sit at her very side, not caring a whit for changing the arrangements Anthony had carefully made at the head table.

This lady’s smile would be won, regardless of the cost.

* * *

Eleanor was not a fickle woman, but a single glimpse of Alexander Lammergeier utterly changed her thinking. She had erred when she had accepted the sisters’ offer. She merely spied the man in question and knew she could not wed him.

For the Laird of Kinfairlie was not what Eleanor had expected. She had assumed him to be a portly curmudgeon of an elder brother, perhaps one from an earlier marriage of the women’s father, a man vastly older and less eligible than his pretty sisters.

But Alexander possessed none of those traits. He was young, for one thing, a mere half dozen years older than herself. He was also cursedly handsome, which Eleanor distrusted to her very marrow, and worse, he was clearly aware of his own merit. Like Kinfairlie itself, he presented an allure that must be only skin deep. No man could be handsome and kind and unwed; no holding could be fully peaceful. Both laird and estate were illusions and thus untrustworthy.

Indeed, Alexander’s peasants held him in such uncommon regard that Eleanor concluded that they feigned their affection. They must be fawning, out of fear of some caprice of his nature.

Further, there was no reason, from the look of him, that the Laird of Kinfairlie would have any trouble finding a spouse for himself. What did his sisters know of him that Eleanor did not? She could imagine a thousand ugly liabilities.

Which particular weakness was his curse was not that important. She would break the wager, here and now, and to seal her decision, she would leave Kinfairlie. No one would pursue her when there was a banquet to be savored in a warm hall.

“I have made my choice,” she whispered to Madeline, who regarded her with optimism. “I will not wed your brother.”

Madeline’s smile disappeared. “But you cannot do so!”

“I most certainly can.” Eleanor rose to her feet.

“At least remain for the meal,” Vivienne protested.

“But you know nothing of him,” Madeline said, sounding so pragmatic that Eleanor might have been persuaded under other circumstance. “At least, meet him before you decide.”

Eleanor shook her head and seized her cloak. “It was a poor idea, though well-intentioned,” she said, forcing a polite smile for the sisters. “I appreciate your courtesy and wish you both well.” She pivoted then, and would have fled, but Alexander himself stood directly before her.

He did not look inclined to move. He was a formidable obstacle, tall and broad as he was, though it was his charming smile that made Eleanor reluctant to show herself rude. She felt flushed and flustered beneath his attention, as he must know. “Surely you cannot depart when we have yet to be introduced?”

Had his sisters notified him of their scheme? Was she the one to be cornered into marriage, instead of Alexander? Terror claimed Eleanor that she was sought yet again for the wealth she might bring a spouse.

“I apologize for my haste but it is later than I had believed. I must leave immediately,” she said.

“Do you seek your spouse? We can send for him,” he said with a courtesy she did not trust.

“I have no spouse. I am widowed,” she said and made to step past him.

But Alexander claimed Eleanor’s elbow. She flinched at his touch, though his grip was gentle, and he lifted his hand away immediately. “I apologize. It is not my intent to harm you,” he said, his words so contrite that another other woman might have believed him.

But Eleanor had heard such apologies before, and she had been trapped by ambitious men before. Her thoughts whirled. How could the sisters have known of her inheritance? She had not even told them her name. The news of a fortune to be won traveled on fleet feet, however, as Eleanor had learned.

Surely, even if Ewen’s kin had come this way while she slept in Kinfairlie’s chapel, they would never reveal the true reason they sought her? Her fortune could easily be claimed by any man with a prick and a barren left hand.

Eleanor did not know. She did not truly care. She felt hot and cornered beneath this man’s steady gaze, discomfited that he had noted her aversion to being touched. She wished to flee as far as she could.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” she said, hearing the fear in her own words. “But I must leave immediately.”

“Then I shall escort you to the stables,” Alexander said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“You cannot leave before the meal is served,” Vivienne said.

“No one should journey on Christmas Eve!” Madeline protested.

“The lady shall do as she desires,” Alexander said with resolve, and Eleanor was surprised to have him defend her decision. He winked at her most unexpectedly and her heart skipped. When had a man ever flirted with her?

“And I shall ensure that she has her choice,” Alexander said, his tone firm. He offered his elbow to Eleanor, who found herself shocked that any man would so cede to her.

She took his arm, though did not allow herself to become less wary, and Alexander led her from the hall. She did not feel more at ease, curiously, once they were alone in the corridor beyond the hall, once there was only shadows and the distant clatter of the feast being served.

For the laird himself accompanied her, of course, and his attention was fixed fully upon her.

“I have a boon to ask of you before you leave Kinfairlie,” Alexander said, sparing her a glance.

He had blue eyes, Eleanor noted, eyes filled with a thousand sparkles, as if his good humor could not be contained. His hair was as black as a raven’s wing, the black of his lashes making his eyes appear yet a more unholy blue. There were faint lines beside his eyes, as if he oft smiled, and he was tanned, as if he was oft outdoors. His manners were perfect, his grace unrivalled. She braced herself against his allure, reminding herself to trust no one. Who knew what lies a man might tell to ensnare her?

“I have little to grant and less inclination to surrender whatsoever I do possess,” she said, and glanced away.

Alexander chuckled, a beguiling sound if ever there was one. “I ask only for your name,” he said. “I am Alexander Lammergeier, Laird of Kinfairlie, and I bid you welcome to my hall, however short your visit might prove to be.”

“I was solely here on your sisters’ sufferance, but do thank you for your hospitality.” Eleanor said no more, though she felt him waiting, felt his gaze upon her, felt her color rising ever so slightly.

“Have you not a name?” he asked with some amusement.

“Why would you have need of it?” They took measured steps together, despite Eleanor’s attempt to hasten. “I intend to leave and never return.”

“Then perhaps I shall seek you out, like a knight upon a quest. It would far simpler to succeed in that feat if I knew your name.”

Eleanor was certain that he jested at her expense and stole a glance at him. She found his eyes sparkling yet, but he watched her avidly, as if truly interested in her answer. She recalled the sum of her father’s fortune and reminded herself that many a man would find that worthy of fascination. “You have no good reason to seek me out,” she said primly.

“Ah, but I do.”

He spoke with such conviction that Eleanor had to look his way again. The corner of his mouth was tugging into a smile. He had a dimple beneath one corner of his mouth, and looked the very image of mischief.

He shook a finger at her. “You would have me think that you are not curious, but I can see that you are. Perhaps you do not wish to encourage me, knowing as you do that the ogre appointed as your guardian would savor the chance to devour me.”

“There is no such ogre!”

Alexander nodded sagely. “Perhaps you show your interest in me by fearing for my hide in undertaking such a quest. It shows a kindness of nature that is yet more enticing than your beauty.”

“Perhaps I show no such concern.”

He laughed, undeterred, and Eleanor found herself tempted to smile. “But surely you are not devoid of curiosity,” he teased. “You do not even ask after the details of my quest, although it concerns you alone.”

“I suspect it is the same as most men’s quests, when they ride in pursuit of women,” Eleanor said. She dared to give him a stern glance. “A coupling, either willing or nay, and a son, either legitimate or nay.”

The sparkle left his eyes, though she felt no triumph that she had insulted him. “You have a grim view of my fellows.”

“I have been taught to expect no more and no less than that.”

He considered her before he spoke. “How uncommon for a demoiselle. How unfortunate.”

“I am no maiden,” Eleanor retorted. “But a woman twice widowed.” She lifted her chin and regarded him steadily. “There are many who would consider me well-sampled for that. As for Fortune, she is a fickle companion.”

“I know that well enough,” he said so wryly that she dared to glance his way again. He smiled at her. “But surely the merit of a woman is not measured by her innocence?” He spoke with such soft conviction that Eleanor was tempted to believe he thought as much.

But men lied. Not a one of them was to be believed, especially one so certain of his own charm as this Alexander.

She said nothing, and they stepped through the last portal, into the bailey. Eleanor took a deep breath of bracingly cold air. The snow still fell, though not as thickly as it had the night before, and it was dark. Snow gleamed on the roofs of Kinfairlie village. The land seemed shrouded in silence and, though she listened with care, she heard no approaching hoof beats.

“So you assume me to be of the ilk as those men you have known, though I am not. How might I persuade you otherwise?”

At his words, Eleanor realized that Alexander had been watching her. She wondered how much he had guessed of her thoughts and feared his intent anew. “You will not.”

He smiled then, a smile of such confidence that she knew she had not deterred him. Indeed, she seemed to have done the opposite. “Then my quest shall prove interesting indeed.”

“If you pursue me, you will not bed me.”

“That is not my intent.”

She could not contain her curiosity then. “I do not understand. What then is your quest?”

“To see you smile, no more and no less.”

Eleanor stared at Alexander, so shocked was she. He smiled at her, his very expression beguiling her, tempting her, teasing her with the prospect of fulfilling his sisters’ scheme. He had firm lips and a steady gaze.

He would not be so fearsome to meet abed. Eleanor’s heart leapt in a most uncharacteristic manner.

She scoffed then, seeing the trick in his words. “Ah, but you would demand a tribute upon your success, to be sure.”

Alexander shook his head. “If you were inclined to grant one, I would accept it, but it is not my manner to force myself upon unwilling women.”

She had forgotten that she had been holding Alexander’s arm but became aware of it now, beneath his sure regard. His arm was warm and strong beneath her fingertips, and Eleanor thought she could feel the pulse of his blood beneath the flesh even through the barrier of cloth. He was no ancient man, but one young and virile and intrigued by her. She looked at him, noted the mischievous curve of his lips, and knew that a dozen years earlier, she would have surrendered her heart to Alexander Lammergeier without a murmur of protest.

But she was no innocent maiden any longer. She would have been happy to have never learned the lessons she had learned, but that did not change how they had shaped her life.

Eleanor pulled her hand from the crook of Alexander’s elbow and stepped away, half-certain that he mocked her. “You are light of heart for a man so burdened with responsibility as a laird should be.” She folded her arms across her chest, feeling the cold now that she was two paces away from his heat. “Perhaps you are not laird at all.”

Alexander sobered then, his gaze flicking over the village before them. When he met her gaze again, though, his smile was less mischievous and his words came low. “Perhaps for this night, I have decided to forget my obligations.”

If his jesting manner was enticing, his thoughtfulness was more so. Eleanor had never been able to resist a man with his wits about him. She had to depart and do so immediately.

Eleanor forced a smile, though it was a sad one, then shrugged. “There is your quest fulfilled, Alexander Lammergeier, and now I will depart. You may disregard your obligations but I will never forget mine.”

“Not even for one night?”

“Not even for one moment.” With that, Eleanor turned away from this intriguing man, gathered her cloak about herself and began to walk away.

Kinfairlie was no sanctuary, not with a man such as Alexander as its laird, a man who could make her doubt even for a moment all she knew to be true.

She was best away from this false haven; the further and the sooner, the better.

Chapter Two

Alexander’s innate skills had clearly withered in the past year. Indeed, his ability to beguile a woman had eroded to nothing at all. Never had he watched a woman turn her back upon him, never had he seen a woman dismiss his presence so readily.

But this lady strode resolutely away, choosing a night in the snow over him and the pleasures of his hall.

It was little consolation that she was the most intriguing woman that he had ever encountered. Not only was she lovely, but her wits were quick, and she had already surprised him more than once.

He wanted to know more of her, not have her walk away and disappear forever.

Alexander shoved a hand through his hair. He might have seized her arm and forcibly halted her but he recalled how she had cringed from his touch.

So, he was loathsome, as well. His charm was lacking, to be sure.

“Have you no horse?” he called after her.

She did not turn, as if she thought the answer evident. Nor did she slow her pace, much less halt. He might never have spoken.

Alexander cursed that he was apparently so forgettable, then strode after her. He swung his cloak from his own back and dropped it over her shoulders. She was finely wrought and even her luxuriant cloak could not be sufficient against this night’s cold.

She glanced up at this slight courtesy, the surprise in her expression telling him that she had not lied.

Twice wed and poorly served both times, he would wager. His determination to show her that all men did not fit her experience redoubled.

“You cannot walk away from Kinfairlie on Christmas Eve,” he said with false cheer. “As laird of this holding, I forbid it.”

“You were the one who chose to put your obligations aside. If you are not laird this night, then you cannot command my doings.”

Alexander smiled. “True enough. Then I argue on grounds of concern for your welfare. You will not find a hearth to welcome you on this night.”

“On Christmas Eve? You have a low opinion of the charity of your fellows!”

“They are all at my board, not home to answer your knock. It is but the truth of the situation.”

She bit her lip to consider that. Then a shadow touched her features, as if she recalled some matter of urgency, and she quickened her pace. “All the same, I dare not linger.”

“Am I so fearsome as that?” Alexander demanded. “I will ensure that no man plagues you in my hall.”

Her sidelong glance was wry. “What of you?”

“But I seek only a smile. It will cost you little to entertain my quest for a single night.”

She hesitated before she replied, then spoke with care. “Surely your lady wife will take exception to you seeking such a favor from another woman.”

“Surely not, as I have no lady wife.”

“Whyever not?” Her tone revealed that she was not surprised. “You possess a holding, thus can wed. You are of an age to marry and clearly possess some increment of charm.”

Alexander grinned at that, but when she did not share his delight, he shook his head. “The matter is not so simple as it might appear. I have three sisters yet to see married happily and much to learn yet about managing my estate. My uncle counseled that I wait to wed until I had ensured stability for Kinfairlie, though I fear that goal may not be readily won.”

He granted her a glance, fearful that he bored her, but caught her watching him, assessment in her eyes. “But why do I burden you with such details? My worries are not yours.” He shook a playful finger at her and she abruptly returned her attention to the snow. “You are of little aid in my scheme to forget my obligations this night.”

“Perhaps then you should let me depart.”

“Ah, but there will be insufficient time to seek you out before the burden of my responsibilities returns in the morning,” he argued genially. “Indeed, it would be best for both of us if you returned to my hall for one night, the better than I might succeed in my quest, and you might be warm and safe. Can you not be tempted to taste the wine from my cellars?”

“You must be affluent indeed to have wine in your cellars, no less to share it with your peasants.”

Alexander laughed. “I am as impoverished as ever a man could be,” he admitted. “But I have had family in Sicily and more family who traded in goods, and thus have the good fortune to have been given several casks of wine which are yet in my cellar.” He granted her a quick wink. “It is better drunk than left to ruin.”

“And many a man is better drunk, though that might lead him to ruin,” she retorted, prompting his laughter again.

“Only a man quick to temper is better drunk than sober, for then he has not the ability to act upon his whims,” Alexander said. “Though I assure you that I am not in their number.”

“Is that the truth of it,” she said mildly, as if unpersuaded.

Alexander did not know whether she was doubtful of his notion of drunken men or his own merit.

He shivered elaborately. “Though I am reluctant to end our conversation, truly, it is too cold to jest thus in the bailey. Surely we might proceed so far as an introduction by this point? What is your name, lady fair? You must have one, though you are reluctant to surrender it.”

“Eleanor,” she admitted, to his astonishment.

“Eleanor.” Alexander rolled the name across his tongue as he considered how to proceed. He marveled that she had surrendered her name, noted that she had not included an estate though she was clearly noble, and wondered whether it was her name in truth. He had little to lose by teasing her, he reasoned. “Perhaps it is not truly your name.”

She looked so outraged at his suggestion that he knew it must be her name, or at least a part of it. “What mockery is this?”

“Surely it is uncommon for a lady to grant so little of her name when most would surrender all of it? You admit to no title and no house. Perhaps you have another name.”

“Perhaps I am not noble.”

She was troubled by his perceptiveness, Alexander noted, so he made a jest. “Then whence came your gown?” he teased. “You did not find garb such as this abandoned in a gutter.”

She bit her lip, seemingly without a response.

Alexander touched the trailing end of her sleeve, rubbing the cloth between finger and thumb. He was tempted to touch her wrist, so close was her flesh, but dared not press her overmuch.

Indeed, she pulled her hand away from him, and put a step between them. Alexander did not comment, nor did he miss her response.

She liked her secrets, to be sure, but he tired of her low estimation of his nature. He decided to press her slightly.

“Such finely woven cloth can only be from the Lowlands,” he mused, “so rich a hue could only have been dyed in France. And the embroidery is lavish indeed. This is not a gown from one of my sisters, for I should recall the cost well enough. And the cloak -” he whistled through his teeth “- ermine would beggar a king in these days.” He met her gaze again. “No common woman could buy such garb, thus you must be noble. I would wager that your husbands were not petty lords, either.”

She caught her breath and quickened her step. “I might be a thief,” she said.

Alexander grinned and easily matched his pace to hers. “From whom would you steal? You would have to have traveled far with your ill-gotten gains to have found yourself in my hall.”

She lifted her chin and he saw her lips set stubbornly. “Perhaps I am a rich man’s consort.”

Alexander pretended to consider this, then shook his head. “Bereft of your benefactor but so afraid of a man’s caress as you are?” he said softly. “I think not.”

She turned upon him with flashing eyes. “I am not afraid!”

Alexander shrugged, though truly he was beguiled by her response. “A courtesan would seek another patron, and I am the best proposition in this vicinity.” He spread his hands and smiled at her. “I invite you, Eleanor, to seduce me.”

But she did not share his merriment. “Oh! You are so certain of yourself, even knowing so few details as you do,” she fumed. She faced him, hands on her hips, eyes flashing like the sea in sunlight. “Perhaps my patron is possessive. Perhaps I but wisely ensure that I am a faithful consort.” A challenge lit her eyes. “Perhaps I hasten to meet my lover.”

“Where?” Alexander glanced pointedly back at his hall. “In my experience, rich men do not hide themselves so well that they pass unnoticed, even as guests.”

“Nor do they welcome their mistresses at the board when their family gathers for a religious feast.”

“Nor do they fail to provide a mount for any soul they hold in regard. Why do you avoid my stables? You cannot mean to abandon the horse provided by your patron?”

She pursed her lips and folded her arms more tightly about herself. “You are a persistent foe,” she said through gritted teeth.

Alexander laughed. “True enough. Think of how vexing it would be to have me in pursuit of you.” She made a sound of annoyance and he clucked his tongue as if pitying her that ordeal. She met his gaze, appearing sufficiently amused that he was encouraged. “I am cold and I would make you a wager, fair Eleanor.”

“One that will cost me dear, from the look of you.”

He laughed again. “Not so dear as that. Grant me one night to win your smile.”

“Between the sheets?”

“In the hall, at the table, in the company of others.”

“In some places, those conditions would not preclude an attempt to be between a woman’s thighs.”

Alexander grinned. “They do in my abode. I would try to win your smile this night with words and gallantry, no more than that.” He put his hand over his heart. “I grant you my word of honor.”

She arched a brow. “Though I know not its worth.”

Irked, he leaned closer and lowered his voice, sober as he had not yet been. “Had I desired a rape, it could have been done by now, with nary a witness of the deed.”

Eleanor took a step back and he cursed himself for making her cautious once again. “Many a man feigns honor to win a lady’s trust.”

Alexander shrugged. “There is but one way you might know my merit in truth.” He offered his hand.

She stared at his upturned palm, then squared her shoulders and met his gaze steadily. Her chin lifted, as if she would challenge him—and truly, she did. She looked as regal as a queen and as indomitable as a warrior and Alexander was utterly charmed. “I daresay your price would be higher than a mere smile if you succeed.”

“I desire no more than to see you smile,” he insisted. “If I win, that sight will be reward enough. Your wealthy man has not granted you much in truth, if he has not made you merry.”

Eleanor did not comment upon that. “You will not touch me.”

“I would offer you aid in walking so that you do not slip,” he said with some annoyance. “Whether you take my arm or not is your choice, as is that of a hot meal, a cup of wine and warm pallet this night.”

Eleanor took a quick breath, then put her hand in his. Her hand was small and cold, and Alexander’s urge to gather her close was nigh overwhelming. He restrained himself, though, and merely tucked her hand into his elbow. He turned immediately back toward the keep, concern for her welfare lending speed to his steps. “Be warned, fair Eleanor, that I do not intend to fail.”

“You put more stake upon this than a smile would merit.”

He placed his hand over his heart, knowing she would think he made a jest but there was truth in his words. “I stake all upon it. If I cannot coax your smile this night, then I have lost far more than I have gained this past year.” He winked at her, noting her surprise at his manner. “And truly, if you chose to surrender more than a smile to me in my triumph, I would not protest overmuch.”

She snorted, though a reluctant twinkle lit her eye. “No woman could be as charmed with you as you are with yourself.”

“Let us see if we can amend that situation,” he said with newfound resolve and he was nigh certain that she fought against her answering smile.

* * *

It must be exhaustion at root, Eleanor decided.

That could be the sole reason she had succumbed to Alexander’s plea. She did not change her mind upon a whim, not she, much less because of a man’s attempt to persuade her to do so.

After all, she did not believe that Alexander possessed any allure. Eleanor stole a sidelong glance and corrected herself.

Perhaps he had a small increment of allure.

She liked how tall Alexander was, how determined he was, how resoundingly he laughed. She liked his wit and his whimsy; she liked how his eyes sparkled. She liked that he had already noted her aversion to a man’s touch, however casual it might be; she liked better that he acted upon that observation and did not touch her.

And she had been charmed by his rueful acknowledgement of his lack of coin, for he had dismissed the matter instead of turning an expectant eye upon her. Eleanor had been persuaded then that Alexander knew nothing of her true identity, that he knew even less of the fortune she could bring to a spouse, and her fears had faded. He had not seen her as the solution to his woes, and that had proven to be seductive indeed.

What was even more astonishing was the fact that Alexander thought she had allure.

That was novel in Eleanor’s experience. No man had ever looked at her without seeing the fortune she could bring him, no man had ever courted her favor for its own merit. Certainly no one had sought only her smile.

Eleanor had wondered, as they bantered, what it would be like to be the sole focus of this handsome and charming man.

Perhaps curiosity was as much the root of her choice as exhaustion, for Eleanor had decided then to indulge herself. She had borne much in her days and she would undoubtedly endure much more. But on this one night, she would be as carefree as her host. She would let him try to coax her smile, as if neither of them had any matter more pressing before them than his whimsical quest.

The warmth of the hall embraced them when they crossed the threshold, and the golden light was the most welcoming Eleanor had ever seen. She could smell the roasted meat and the beeswax candles and the press of several hundred people. The music was joyous and loud, the laughter raucous.

Indeed, a cheer rent the hall when Alexander was spied and he winked for Eleanor, then bowed deeply to his guests. Clearly, the wine was finding favor, for many in the hall applauded him with gusto.

“Did you leave a morsel for me?” he demanded in mock indignation and a fulsome wench at the closest table held up her own trencher for him.

“The meat is toothsome, my lord,” she said, boldly smiling at him. Eleanor did not doubt that she offered a good deal more than the meat piled on her bread.

Alexander leaned closer, making a show of examining the meat. “Is this the venison, Anna?”

“In pepper sauce, my lord,” the wench agreed. “Spicy yet savory all the same. It lingers upon the tongue with a delightful heat.”

Eleanor nigh choked upon the woman’s audacity, but Alexander chose a morsel with solemnity. She noted that he picked the finest piece on the trencher. She had only a heartbeat to consider the poor measure of his manners before he pivoted and held the meat before her own lips.

“My lady fair?” he murmured, inviting her to partake of the bite.

Eleanor momentarily did not know what to do. It was beyond intimate for a man to feed a woman, and for him to do so in such a crowded hall when every eye was upon them shocked her to her marrow. She liked that the wench was so displeased by the failure of her ploy, and she knew her manners well enough to know that she should accept his gift. All the same, she did not wish to show herself as common as the woman who had offered the meat in the first place.

Her tutors had not prepared her for this moment, to be sure.

It was the daring glimmer in Alexander’s blue eyes that resolved her dilemma. He thought she would decline, and that was sufficient for Eleanor.

After all, she had argued that she was a courtesan. And she had decided to indulge herself this night.

“I thank you, my lord,” she murmured, letting her expression show pleasure though she did not smile. She took the meat from his fingertips in one languorous bite, holding his gaze. She ensured that her tongue caressed his flesh when she claimed the last measure of gravy from his knuckle. She chewed it slowly, rolling the meat around in her mouth, then ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

Alexander swallowed visibly.

“Delicious!” she said, lowering her voice to a purr. “It must have been a most robust buck.”

“And have you a taste for such virile beasts?” he asked, his eyes dancing.

“On occasion, I have found them amusing,” she allowed. “Indeed, I find my appetite for such virile meat mustered with that morsel.”

“Then, we must hasten to the board,” Alexander said, smiling so that the bold wench could not be insulted, then sweeping Eleanor to the high table. “You tempt me apurpose,” he muttered.

“While you did not intend to tempt me?” Eleanor whispered, then preceded him to the high table. “I am a courtesan, as you were warned. I know no other game.”

A spark lit in Alexander’s eyes then, one so filled with mischief that Eleanor’s heart skipped. “Is that the truth of it?” he mused in an undertone. “How would a man make a courtesan smile, without some intimate tickle abed? I shall have to ponder the matter.”

Eleanor did not doubt that he would do more than ponder it. Indeed, she felt a tingle of anticipation, for she could not guess what he might do.

His sisters nudged each other, probably thinking that their scheme held promise once again. Eleanor did not tell them otherwise. She was introduced to all of them formally—Madeline, Vivienne, Annelise, Isabella and Elizabeth—then to Rhys and Erik, the spouses of Madeline and Vivienne respectively. Two young girls, the daughters of Erik and Vivienne, peeked around their mother’s skirts as they were introduced. They were Megan and Astrid, though Eleanor was not certain which was which, and they looked to be thrilled with the promise of the feast.

She let Alexander seat her upon his left hand, not caring what any person in his hall thought of that, and accepted the goblet of wine that he filled with his own hand.

He touched his cup to hers, some wickedness making his eyes dance anew, then raised his voice. “To laughter,” he cried and sipped of his cup’s contents.

Eleanor drank the toast with caution, assuming the wine would be passing fair at best, then her eyes widened. It was a fine French wine, much to her astonishment, one that would have earned praise in a king’s hall.

“You smiled!” Alexander whispered in triumph.

“For the wine, not for you,” she said, sobering immediately. “Your quest is not fulfilled, sir.”

“That is not fair,” he argued so good-naturedly that she knew he was not truly offended. “I will not be bested by a mere beverage!”

“This wine has a considerable charm,” Eleanor admitted, then sipped of it again.

“You have scarce seen the full measure of mine,” he retorted and she stifled the urge to chuckle.

But she could not let a man with such cursed confidence win his way as readily as that.

* * *

The woman would have him believe her to be a courtesan. The very notion was absurd, given her reluctance to be touched, but Alexander was prepared to agree with it, if it meant the lady would remain in his hall for this evening.

It did not, however, preclude his teasing her over the matter.

“Is it true,” he asked when venison was promptly laid upon the trencher they would share, “that a woman of pleasure oft feeds her patron his every morsel with her fingertips?” He held another piece of meat for Eleanor, ensuring that it did not drip upon her garb.

This bite she accepted more hastily, granting him a warning glance. “There are those who do, or so I hear. My own favor is for my own spoon.” She lifted another piece of meat with that utensil, but Alexander bent and ate it himself, before she realized his intent. She was delightfully startled, her ruddy lips rounding in a circle of astonishment.

He claimed her spoon and laid it out of her reach, along with his own. “I confess to preferring fingertips. Will you not see my own hunger sated?” He looked pointedly to the trencher before them.

Eleanor grasped the largest piece of meat between finger and thumb, and offered it to him. Alexander made to bite it, but she pushed it all between his lips. “That will ensure your silence for a few moments,” she said, her tone surprisingly teasing. She ate then at leisure while he fought to chew his way through the piece of meat.

His sisters smirked on either side.

“You have a drop of wine upon your lip,” he murmured to Eleanor when he could do so, though in truth she did not. Eleanor licked her lips hastily, the sight of the tip of her tongue sending a spark through Alexander.

“The other side,” he lied, wanting only to see her repeat her gesture. She did so, then met his gaze again.

“No,” he said, shaking his head with solemnity. “You missed it. A bit more to your right.” She ducked her head this time and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

“It proves to be elusive, indeed,” he said softly. “Let me do you this courtesy.” Before she could argue the matter, he slid his own fingertip across her bottom lip. He began at one corner of her mouth, holding her gaze all the while, then eased his finger to the other corner with excruciating slowness.

The ruby fullness of her lip tugged beneath his fingertip, its softness tempting him to linger. Eleanor stared at him, her eyes wide, and did not seem to breathe. Alexander was tempted to kiss her, though guessed that she feared he would do as much.

And that would certainly not prompt her smile.

Instead, he licked his own fingertip, as if savoring the drop of wine he had claimed from her lip. “Sweet,” he said, then arched a brow, “though it might seem tart when it first falls upon the tongue. An unobservant man might miss its value.”

Eleanor flushed, her face turning absolutely crimson, then looked down at her side of their trencher. She ate half a dozen pieces of meat so quickly that she could not have tasted them and Alexander sipped his wine, knowing that she was not so immune to him as she would prefer he believe.

Still he had to make her laugh.

On impulse, he decided how just the deed might be done.

* * *

Alexander stood and clapped his hands, mercifully turning his gaze away from Eleanor. She had wondered whether it had been prudent to wish for his attention, after he had fixed it so resolutely upon her. The man was discomfiting, to be certain, and she was flustered.

Yet curiously, she felt more alive than she had in years. Every fiber of her being tingled. She was aware of the muscled heat of his thigh so close to her own, the low rumble of his voice even when he spoke to others, and she swore she could feel his very gaze land upon her.

The man roused unwelcome questions in her thoughts—or perhaps he roused only one. Was it possible that there was more pleasure to be found abed than she had experienced? It was not hard to believe as much, and Eleanor found herself possessed of an uncommon passion to know the truth. She did not doubt that the man by her side would be delighted to exhaust her curiosity.

How would Alexander beguile a woman abed? The very notion lit an unfamiliar fire deep within Eleanor. She watched his hands, lean and strong and tanned, and her mouth went dry at the thought of them upon her flesh. His touch was gentle, she knew as much already, and he was observant beyond men she had known. But doubtless there would be little difference between him and the others in the end, little difference once his lust was sated, little difference once she failed him in some expectation.

Meanwhile, the hall fell silent at Alexander’s summons and every eye fixed upon him. He smiled at the company and spoke so that his words carried across the hall. “Again, I welcome you to my board, and I hope that you have eaten heartily this night,”

The company roared, more than one pair of crockery cups clinking together. There was a hoot from the back of the hall, as if some table of merry souls had imbibed overmuch, then feet were stamped.

Alexander clapped his hands again, even as he laughed. “I shall take that as assent,” he said though few could have heard him over the ruckus.

He shook his head when quiet did not ensue, then let loose a piercing whistle of fearsome volume. His sisters clapped their hands over their ears and protested the noise, though the hall fell silent once more.

Alexander bowed slightly. “Though it is clear that you all enjoy yourselves already, I would propose an entertainment this evening.” The musicians began to play a tune, but he waved them to silence. “There is a tradition common in other halls but new to our own, at least on Christmas Eve. In the past, we have saved our folly for Twelfth Night alone.”

“Tell us your scheme!” roared some intrepid soul.

Eleanor noted that all three of Alexander’s younger sisters looked wary. “He savors this moment overmuch,” muttered Elizabeth, the youngest. “It is a poor omen for us.”

And truly, Alexander’s eyes danced so wickedly that even Eleanor half feared what he would suggest. “What say you all to the appointment of a Lord of Misrule?” he cried.

“So long as he cannot make marriages,” Isabella replied.

Alexander feigned insult. “Do not be absurd! My sisters shall all choose their own spouses, for my lesson has been learned.”

“Do not trust him for a moment,” Elizabeth growled, though she was ignored.

The company bellowed approval of Alexander’s suggestion, and feet were stamped with deafening vigor.

Alexander whistled again. “I reserve the right to appoint each person in this hall to his or her new position. We shall play our parts for all this evening, and revert to normal manners in the morning. No soul may injure another, no person may be cruel. This is folly and amusement, no more. Are we understood?” The company grunted agreement, and more than one man nodded approval of this sentiment.

“Now, we begin.” Alexander spun and surveyed the company, as mischievous as a pixie. “Marjorie the ale-maker shall trade places with my sister, Madeline, and be Lady of Caerwyn this night.”

An older woman with a kindly face rose to her feet, clearly embarrassed to be the focus of attention, yet excited as well. She flushed scarlet when her companions cheered. Madeline smiled and rose with grace to exchange places with the woman. Marjorie might have bowed to Madeline, but Madeline bowed first, then kissed Marjorie’s hand. The woman’s mouth fell open and she fairly gaped in delight when Madeline put her own silken veil and circlet on Marjorie’s head. Madeline then sat at the board with Marjorie’s kin as if she had been there all along.

“Go sit in my place at the high table,” Madeline bade Marjorie when that woman hesitated. Marjorie’s eyes lit with excitement as she crossed the hall and she giggled as she fit herself into the space on the bench that Madeline had vacated. Madeline’s husband kissed Marjorie’s hand with gallantry and the woman giggled.

“Rose, the cook’s wife, you will take the place of my sister, Vivienne, and be Lady of Blackleith this night,” Alexander said. Another matron fairly dashed to the high table in her enthusiasm, then Vivienne surrendered her veil and circlet in her turn. Rose sat beside Erik and spared him a coquettish glance.

“Do not be so quick to think the Lord of Blackleith will be the same man in moments as he is now,” Rose’s husband, the cook, teased and the company laughed. That man then gave Vivienne a hearty buss on the cheek as she arrived at the place Rose had vacated. Rose appeared so indignant that the company laughed.

“Indeed, you speak aright,” Alexander agreed. He quickly named two men to take the places of his brothers-in-law, one elderly and the other a young boy who was pushed forward by an older man.

“The tanner and his apprentice,” Isabella confided to Eleanor.

Alexander worked his way down the high table, replacing his siblings with peasants with such speed that the hall became chaotic. “Elizabeth will trade with the blacksmith’s eldest daughter; Annelise will trade with Ellen the spinner; Isabella will become the shepherd’s wife. Father Malachy will trade with the miller, and Owen the ostler with Siobhan the baker’s wife.”

The ostler, a burly man with a formidable moustache, donned the apron of the baker’s wife, who was not a small woman herself. He then seized two round loaves of bread from a table, slipping them beneath his shirt. He fluttered his lashes and the company howled.

The baker’s wife poked Owen in the shoulder in gentle reprimand, clearly accustomed to his antics. She then tucked her skirts into her boots, quaffed an entire mug of ale, wiped her mouth upon her sleeve and belched fit to rattle the rafters.

This must have been an accurate mimicry of the ostler, for even that man found it amusing.

Then Alexander winked at Eleanor. “My lady fair professes a desire to be a courtesan this night.” He paused while the company shouted approval of this notion and Eleanor found herself blushing anew.

Alexander lowered his voice, his manner so somber that none would doubt his words. “Though you may be assured that any discourtesy visited upon her this night will be recalled by me on the morrow when my customary duties are regained.” He held up a hand for the good-natured protest that followed his threat. “Thus Anna will take my lady’s place.”

Eleanor watched as the maiden who had made to tempt Alexander earlier got to her feet and straightened her bodice, a knowing gleam in her eye. Eleanor made to exchange places with the woman, knowing that she would not have taken even a subtle suggestion that she was a courtesan so coolly in that woman’s place.

Unless it was not only the truth, but known to all.

The two women passed on the floor, though Eleanor spared the woman no trinket to play her role. Their shoulders brushed as they passed each other.

Just then, Anna whispered beneath her breath for Eleanor’s ears alone, her tone triumphant. “You see that he is mine, after all. Any man likes fire better than ice.”

Anna had no chance to gloat, though, for Alexander raised his voice once again. “And I would surrender my place, until the stroke of midnight, to the new Laird of Kinfairlie and Lord of Misrule.” The company held its breath as one, and Eleanor turned back to find Alexander grinning. “Matthew, the miller’s son!” he cried. “Come take my place this night!”

Anna’s expression of horror made more than one soul in the hall laugh aloud.

A lanky young man stood up, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Me, my lord?”

“Yes, you, Matthew,” Alexander beckoned. “Hasten yourself to the high table.”

Matthew looked to the older couple who shared his table, and the miller—who now wore the priest’s cossack—nodded encouragement. Matthew was crimson to find himself the center of attention and did not look as if he would summon the resolve to walk to the high table. Father Malachy patted Matthew on the shoulder in encouragement.

The woman wiped away a tear as she smiled. “Go on, then, Matthew,” she said. “Be a good lad and do as the laird bids you.”

“But I cannot be laird,” Matthew said so stubbornly Eleanor wondered whether the boy was slow of wit.

“Only for one night, Matthew,” Alexander said, his tone cajoling. “The burden will not flatten you so fast as that! I have need of a laird to ensure that all is well in Kinfairlie, a man with a good heart, and you, I know, are the one best suited for the task.”

The miller rose when Matthew still did not move and took his hand, whispered something into his son’s ear, then urged him toward the dais.

Matthew’s wonder was evident to all when he reached Alexander’s side. Alexander tugged his tabard over his head, then he and the miller saw Matthew garbed in the colors of Kinfairlie.

“I will not fail your trust, my lord,” he said, his reverence for Alexander clear.

Alexander smiled. “I expect no less.” Then he feigned a whisper as if confiding some detail, though it was yet loud enough for the company to hear. “Mind no man hunts the deer upon your land, my lord, for it is forbidden by the king’s own law.” At this counsel, the miller turned as red as a beet and several men guffawed in the company. Alexander grinned at the miller, and Eleanor knew that this was some old tale between them.

“For this night and this night alone, Kinfairlie is beneath the command of Matthew, Lord of Misrule!” Alexander cried, then lowered his voice. “I beg you to ensure that all are entertained well.” He winked for Matthew, pushed his signet ring on to Matthew’s finger, then bowed low and kissed the boy’s hand. Matthew gaped at the gold ring on his own calloused hand.

The castellan caught his breath in disapproval. “My lord! You should not surrender such a prize so readily as that!”

“It is merely for one night,” Alexander said, putting his hand upon Matthew’s shoulder. “Matthew can be trusted to hold it fast.”

There was affection between the two of them, an affection that surprised Eleanor. She had not often seen lairds take much interest in those who labored upon their lands. But Matthew’s father beamed and she knew that this warmth was not feigned.

“I can have more wine?” Matthew asked, hope in his eyes.

“Even better, you can command all to do your will for this one night,” the miller explained.

“And they must do it?”

“Just for this one night,” his father counseled, clearly foreseeing trouble from this. He and Alexander laughed.

Matthew’s eyes lit with sudden resolve. “But if I am laird, then I must have a lady.”

Alexander turned to the wench he had appointed in Eleanor’s place. “But Anna...”

“I will not be his lady,” Anna snapped and turned away.

“So long as she has not kissed Matthew the miller’s son, she has not welcomed every man in Kinfairlie,” shouted some bold soul. The company laughed, even as a furious Anna sought the man who had so commented.

Matthew was untroubled by this. “I would have a lady by my side,” he said then looked anew to Alexander. “Could Ceara be my lady fair?”

A plump young girl at the back of the hall gasped and became redder than red when the entire company turned her way. She stood up, then sat down, then hunkered low as if she would hide herself. She was not a beauty, but she was fair of face. The way she kept her eyes downcast suggested to Eleanor that Ceara was shy.

And that perhaps Matthew’s admiration was returned.

“A man of merit must ask a lady’s favor,” Alexander suggested.

“Ceara, will you be my lady?” Matthew shouted across the hall. Helpful hands urged shy Ceara from her hiding place and she nodded assent, apparently struck mute by the honor.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth had woven a pair of crowns from the greenery in the hall, and she presented them now with a flourish. The new lord and lady were crowned to the delight of all. The pair smiled shyly at each other. Matthew swallowed, then took his lady’s hand. That intimacy seemed to overwhelm them, so shy were they, and they looked away from each other, blushing furiously. Alexander and the miller exchanging knowing glances.

Eleanor was touched that Alexander had granted the boy his heartfelt desire. She had never known a laird to care about the happiness of his peasants.

Matthew took a deep breath, then pointed to the priest. “Father Malachy, you said that you wished you could dance, but that it was not fitting for a priest.”

“True enough, Matthew, though on this night, I am a miller.”

“Then you must dance, Father Malachy! You must dance all the night long!” Matthew looked around, avidly seeking someone to command. His gaze fell upon Eleanor. “And you must dance with the lord’s lady.”

“Ceara?”

“No, my lord Alexander’s lady.”

Father Malachy, in good humor, came to Eleanor and bowed low. “As you command, Lord Matthew.” He winked at Eleanor. “To dance with a courtesan will be a rare treat for me, indeed.” Doubtless he assumed that he would lead her in some courtly dance but the minstrels immediately struck a bawdy tune.

“Everyone must dance!” Matthew cried. “It is Christmas, after all!”

The musicians sang a playful ditty about a sailor and a mermaid, a tune evidently well known in these parts with words that left little to the imagination about the state of the happy couple’s intimate bliss. The priest was an artful dancer and Eleanor found herself enjoying the quick steps and merry music. He turned her gracefully, as courteous as a man could be, and her worries eased yet more. Alexander’s hall was warm, his people were happy, his wine was good, and this was a night to celebrate.

They did not fear him. They trusted him. And so would she—for a single night.

More than one couple joined them in the dance, and one tune spilled into another. Soon the hall was rollicking. Eleanor found herself out of breath but with no shortage of partners. Every man evidently wanted to dance with the courtesan—even the ostler in his apron. She caught only brief glimpses of Alexander as he circled the hall.

Eleanor danced as she had seldom danced, for the tunes were vigorous and the clapping of the company was infectious. She had no obligations, no man kept a censorious eye upon her, no one would later demand an accounting of her every step. Her cup was filled with wine at every opportunity, and the minstrels seemed to know a hundred tunes.

Matthew called commands from the high table all the while. In every direction, Eleanor could spy some folly. One man tried to balance a spoon upon his nose at the Lord of Misrule’s bidding, a feat complicated by his earlier consumption of ale. Another man tried to drink three tankards of ale in quick succession, his companions noisily trying to cheer him on. A plain maiden collected her due of a kiss from every man in the hall, blushing furiously all the while. It was harmless amusement, no malice in it at all, and Eleanor decided that Alexander had chosen his replacement well.

* * *

“A kiss!” Matthew cried suddenly. “Every man must collect a kiss from his partner!” The ostler, in his apron, happened to be Eleanor’s partner in that moment, and truly, Eleanor had never kissed a man with both a thick moustache and two considerable loaves of bread as breasts.

In the end, it was not Anna’s comeuppance that made Eleanor smile, nor was it the dozens of acts of foolery being committed in Kinfairlie’s hall. It was not the ostler’s errant ‘breast’, not even when he had to crawl under the tables in pursuit of the one that had leapt free when he feigned a faint after her buss upon his cheek.

It was the expression of rapture upon Matthew’s face when Ceara gave him a quick kiss, full on the lips, that made Eleanor’s lips curve. The young man appeared to be stunned by this honor, while Ceara herself looked astonished at her own boldness. The pair looked at each other so ardently that Eleanor did not doubt that a courtship would soon begin.

“God bless my lord Alexander,” a woman said from close proximity. Eleanor spied Matthew’s mother not a trio of steps away, her gaze fixed upon her son. “There be a man with eyes in his head and the will to do something about what he sees. I thought Matthew would never so much as speak to that girl, so smitten is he with her, but my lord has seen the matter resolved.”

Eleanor felt her smile broaden. What a Christmas gift Alexander had given the miller’s son! She turned, seeking the man responsible, but did not need look far. She felt his hand upon the back of her waist, heard his low voice behind her.

“If you will pardon my interruption, lady baker,” Alexander said to the ostler who snorted with laughter. “I would claim your partner for her next dance.”

“By all means, my lord,” the ostler said in falsetto. “Though I have already collected her kiss.”

“Ah, it is a richer prize I seek,” Alexander said as he swung Eleanor into his arms and the dance began. “Is it true that you smile?”

“Indeed, your quest is won.” Eleanor studied him, for he looked both younger and more dangerous with his tabard gone and his hair rumpled. His chemise was of fine linen, but he might have been any charming rogue, not a man with a holding beneath his hand. Truly, it was a marvel how the man’s eyes sparkled.

“And the evening is yet young,” he mused with a wicked smile. “Do you imagine that your smile can be coaxed again?”

“On this night, in this hall, I would not wager against it.”

He grinned. “I will take that as a compliment to my hospitality.”

“It is Matthew’s hospitality on this night, I believe,” Eleanor corrected and Alexander laughed. She sobered. “You granted him a fine gift this night. It was kind of you.”

Alexander shrugged. “His is a good heart, and one deserving of good fortune. I merely hastened his inevitable success.”

Eleanor liked that he did not insist upon gratitude for his deed. She liked that he had concern for his people, and that they trusted him as they did. His hand was not heavy upon them, and they relied upon his judgment, it was clear. She had erred when earlier she had suspected that they feared him, just as she had erred when she had assumed Alexander to be a man concerned with his own pleasures alone. She found herself less anxious to flee Kinfairlie’s hall in the morning.

“More wine?” one of Alexander’s sisters demanded suddenly from their side.

“Doubtless you recall Isabella,” he said, courteously and subtly reminding Eleanor which sister was which. She found herself smiling for him again. She had met his sisters so quickly that she did not doubt she would have confused their names.

“The next sister but one that Alexander must see wed,” Isabella said with a grimace.

“Not this night, at least,” he agreed amiably, ignoring her dark glance. “You could find yourself a suitable match in your time and I would be all the more merry for that.”

“Take your wine,” Isabella said, urging the cups upon them. “There is more in this one, Alexander, for you.”

“Ah, but Eleanor favors a good wine and has found this one amiable.” Alexander gallantly offered the glass that was more full to her, but Eleanor saw Isabella’s eyes light with alarm. The younger woman shook her head while her brother’s attention was diverted, and Eleanor guessed that the full glass was intended for him for some reason.

“I have indulged too much this night,” she said and accepted the less full cup. “Take it, Alexander, lest it be wasted.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.” Eleanor watched Isabella as that girl nodded with relief. She wondered then what had been put in Alexander’s cup, but she did not have to wonder long.

Within three dances, the man was stumbling over his own feet in a most alarming manner.

Chapter Three

Eleanor followed the party that wound its way upward to the laird’s chamber of Kinfairlie, the sound of the festivities below carrying through the floor. Erik and Rhys fairly carried Alexander, the two men ensuring that the laird successfully made the climb to his bed. Madeline and Vivienne followed Eleanor and the other sisters trailed behind. Eleanor was more upset about the trick played upon Alexander than she might have expected.

“You could be of some aid,” Rhys grumbled to Alexander, who seemingly could not put one foot before the other.

Alexander made no reply.

“I doubt that he could be,” Eleanor noted, wondering at this potion they had come by. She hoped that no error had been made in its formulation.

“I hope whatsoever you gave him wears off quickly enough,” Erik said. “It felled him more quickly than might have been thought possible.”

“I too hope that you have not injured him,” Eleanor said.

“It is harmless enough,” Isabella said crisply. “Jeannie said as much.

“A potion of any kind can be unreliable,” Rhys growled. “I have learned my lesson well enough in this.”

“But Jeannie is well known to us and her skills with herbs are of wide repute.” Madeline laid a hand upon his arm. “Fear not, Rhys, for she can be trusted.”

Eleanor guessed that there had been some potion of dubious merit in their past, for Rhys was uncomfortable indeed. It did not reassure her, for she shared his distrust of such elixirs.

“We could have ensured he slept some other way,” Rhys muttered.

“Aye, he is owed a blow or two from me,” Erik agreed and the two warriors grinned at each other. Eleanor could not imagine that such a man as Alexander could be due any such thing. She hoped the pair made a jest, for they were formidable indeed.

“Do not look so fearful,” Elizabeth bade Eleanor. “Alexander is hale enough.”

“And the potion will only make him sleep deeply through the morning,” Isabella added. “Jeannie assured me as much.”

They halted on a landing and Vivienne pushed past the trio of men, producing a key from within her skirts. She unlocked the portal and pushed open the door, standing aside so that Alexander could be carried into his chamber.

“I cannot rest,” Alexander mumbled, though his voice was so slurred that it was difficult to discern his words. “I have guests. I have a quest, I must ride the breadth of Christendom to conquer ogres...”

Eleanor caught her breath, fearful of the way Alexander’s thoughts wandered. The men cast the Laird of Kinfairlie none-too-gently into his own bed.

“Your guests will leave soon enough,” Rhys said.

“And you can pursue your quest on the morrow,” Erik added, but Alexander had fallen asleep.

His long limbs were sprawled across his own bed, his hair tousled and his face flushed ruddy from whatever had been in the wine. He looked young to Eleanor, yet alluring all the same. She could not keep herself from the side of the bed, could not resist the urge to lift his eyelid. He twitched when she did as much and with some effort she discerned that his pupil was small indeed.

The sight stilled her heart. Perhaps he had need of protection from his own kin.

“What was in your potion?” she demanded but Isabella merely shrugged.

“Only Jeannie knows the secrets to her elixirs.”

Eleanor laid her fingertips upon Alexander’s throat and was not reassured by the wild race of his pulse.

“I have never seen him so merry as he was this night,” Rhys noted.

“He was always thus, before,” Elizabeth said. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at her sleeping brother. “Alexander was amusing once, before he became laird. This is the first time we have glimpsed him in a year.”

Erik laid a hand upon her shoulder. “He has many obligations in these days. You should have compassion for him, for the death of your parents was most difficult for him.”

Elizabeth grimaced. “I would have compassion if he were not so solemn all the time, and if he were not so determined to be rid of all of us. He wants Kinfairlie all to himself, it seems!”

“You are old enough to wed,” Rhys dared to suggest and the youngest of the Lammergeier family turned upon him in a fury.

“Maman and Papa waited to be wed!” Elizabeth cried. “They waited until they found each other, until they found a love that could not be denied! Maman was not auctioned, and she was not abducted, and she was not treated with indignity.”

Rhys captured Madeline’s hand when that sister made to speak. “But an auction can end well enough,” he said.

Madeline smiled at him and eased closer. “Indeed, it can.”

Vivienne stepped to Erik’s side and he slipped his arm around her waist. “As can an abduction,” he said, sparing a smile for his spouse.

Vivienne leaned her cheek upon his chest. “That it can.”

Eleanor was touched by the obvious affection between the two couples. Alexander had not done so badly in seeing these sisters married. Both of their spouses had holdings, both men were young and hale, and both sisters looked happy indeed. She spared a glance for the man in the bed, who now had settled into a deep sleep, and thought he saw a poor reward for his efforts.

Elizabeth was clearly not so inclined to grant credit to her brother. “Just because the matches Alexander made for you ended fortuitously does not mean that the others will!” she argued. The heat of her anger revealed her fear. It was a fear with which Eleanor could sympathize, though she felt it misplaced in this instance.

“One might expect Fortune to turn against him,” Annelise suggested softly.

“Twice he has succeeded, against all reckoning,” Isabella contributed. The three younger sisters stood together, as unified in their posture as their attitude. “It defies belief that such a trend could continue.”

“Which is why we would see him wed himself,” Madeline said, her manner authoritative.

Vivienne grinned, the same mischief in her expression that Eleanor had glimpsed earlier in Alexander’s. “Marriage will keep him too occupied to force his will upon you three.”

Elizabeth nodded vigorously. “It will give him a taste of what he has rendered unto others.” She looked at Eleanor, and nibbled at her lip with newfound doubt. “That is, if you still wish to wed him, after all you have witnessed this day.”

The entire group turned to Eleanor. She keenly understood their fears, for she had survived two poor marriages and feared that they were more common than happy ones.

But in truth, her sympathies lay with Alexander, a realization that made her doubt her own judgment. She had known the man but an evening, and already his charm and good looks persuaded her to take his side. Did he not appear to be too good to be true?

“Can you see their ribbons?” Madeline asked abruptly. She smiled at Eleanor’s evident confusion. “Elizabeth predicted the happy state of our marriages. She could see ribbons emanating from each of us, entwined with those of our spouses.”

“Elizabeth can see the fey,” Rhys said so solemnly that it could not be mockery. “She has a rare gift.”

Elizabeth snorted. “I can see nothing uncommon, not since Darg disappeared.” She met Eleanor’s inquiring gaze. “Darg was a spriggan, a fairy who abided with us for a while.”

“But she returned to Ravensmuir with Rosamunde,” Annelise said quietly and a pall settled over the small group.

“Neither of them returned from Ravensmuir,” Isabella told Eleanor.

“Ah,” she said, not knowing what else she should say. This was an uncommon family, to be sure. Perhaps there was a measure of madness in their veins.

“But that is not of import this night,” Madeline said with mustered cheer. “You have seen that Alexander is not so foul as you might have feared.”

“And you need not fear that he is frivolous. He is not usually as he was this night,” Annelise assured Eleanor.

“He is usually most sober and responsible,” Isabella added.

“Too sober and responsible,” Elizabeth complained, though no one paid her much heed.

“He is courteous to women,” Vivienne said, “for our father would have suffered no less.”

“Kinfairlie, as you can see, is a fine holding,” Madeline contributed. “Though not as rich as many others, it is well-endowed.”

Eleanor started at this assurance. She studied again the faces of those who regarded her so expectantly and she saw that they had no inkling of how dire matters were for their family abode.

They did not know that Kinfairlie’s coffers were empty.

There was only one soul who could have protected them from that fact. Eleanor crossed the chamber to the bed and stared down at Alexander. This man who would have all believe that he was concerned with his own desires alone had shielded his siblings from a truth that would have shaken them all.

He had kept his secret for an entire year, even while struggling with the newfound burden of managing an estate and the grief of losing both parents suddenly. She again felt a admiration for Alexander Lammergeier—this man who had provided the nudge to begin a courtship between two shy souls in his village, out of kindness alone. There was more to him than a merry jest. He was protective of those reliant upon him, and she liked that.

Truly, he had a dangerous ability to soften her formidable defenses against all men. She bent and touched her fingertips to his throat, reassured that his pulse began to settle into a more normal rhythm already. Though Kinfairlie had not been her destination, she wondered whether some divine force had ensured that she come to Kinfairlie’s gates.

For against all expectation, Eleanor held the key to Kinfairlie’s salvation, though neither Alexander nor his kin knew it. That they had asked so little of her, even in ignorance that she could grant them so much, that they offered her this place in their family simply on the basis of her gender and compassion for a plight they knew little about, was astonishing. But they were a family. She had seen the affection between them, the comfort they had with each other, the ease with which each expressed fears and joys.

Eleanor had never belonged to such a family. She looked at the watchful group again and found the younger sisters’ fear undisguised. They regarded her with a mix of hope and uncertainty. She knew that she could ensure that they wed well, as well as their sisters had.

But there was only one way she could manage as much, and that was as Alexander’s wife.

“I will stay at Kinfairlie and wed Alexander,” she said with sudden resolve, finding her voice more hoarse than she knew it to be. “I will keep our wager.”

To Eleanor’s astonishment, the three younger sisters cheered and spontaneously embraced her. She was momentarily disoriented by such a show of affection.

“This will end well, you can be certain of it,” Isabella said. “He likes you, we can see as much.”

“And you bring out the best in him,” Elizabeth added, squeezing Eleanor’s hand heartily. “He has not been so merry in a year.”

“We will do whatsoever we can to ensure that you are happy,” Annelise whispered against her shoulder and Eleanor found tears rising to her eyes. They were virtual strangers to her, yet had shown her compassion and understanding.

And they had granted her a haven, with no understanding of how precious it was. She would not fail their trust.

“You must leave,” she said with resolve. “And take all of our garb, to ensure that Alexander has no doubts as to what has occurred this night.”

Madeline frowned. “But there will be no consummation this night. There cannot be...” Rhys and Erik laughed and the younger maidens blushed.

“Give me a sharp knife,” Eleanor said. “To cut one’s finger is an old trick but no less effective for all of that.” It was true that she had confessed to being twice widowed, but there was no guarantee that she was not still virginal. She guessed from what she had witnessed of Alexander that he would wed her promptly if he believed he had claimed her maidenhead.

She eased him aside, cut her finger and let the blood drip onto the linens in the middle of the mattress.

The three younger sisters were dispatched then, and the men disrobed Alexander. Madeline and Vivienne shielded Eleanor from the men’s view as she discarded her own garb. The men left the chamber with averted gazes, then Eleanor was alone with the two elder sisters.

“He is a good man,” Madeline assured her, then kissed her cheek.

“So long as you do not deceive him, he will strive to make you happy,” Vivienne said, then kissed her other cheek.

Eleanor did not think it prudent to note that cutting her finger was a deceptive beginning to their match from any perspective.

“He will be fine on the morrow?” she asked.

Madeline chuckled. “He is as hale as an ox. This sleeping draught will leave him with no more than an aching head.”

“As if he had savored too much of the wine,” Vivienne agreed. “Do not fear for him.”

Alexander snorted and rolled over to his back, then began to snore with gusto. The sisters laughed, then scurried from the chamber with Eleanor’s garb, closing the door behind them.

The key turned in the lock and Eleanor folded her arms across her chest. Their footfalls and whispers faded from earshot, but she stood long in the same place.

Once alone in a locked chamber with a man, she could not help wondering at the folly of what she had done.

* * *

The snow had stopped and the sky was clear outside the window of Kinfairlie’s laird, the stars shining brilliantly. The air was icy, prompting Eleanor to shiver. She crossed the floor with measured steps, the wood cold beneath her feet, lured by the temptation of a warm bed.

Alexander slept like a dead man, and Eleanor knew there was no chance of her awakening him soon. The red of her own blood glistened against the white of the linens, taunting her with the import of her deed.

By this time on the morrow, Alexander would be her wedded spouse. They would meet abed in truth. She would be his possession and she would have many years to learn whether her glimpse of his nature this night showed the truth or not.

It was, in many ways, a fearsome prospect.

Eleanor pulled back the coverlet and looked more boldly upon Alexander than she would have the audacity to do when he was awake. He was, as she had suspected, finely wrought and a something deep within her thrilled at the prospect of coupling with a man who was neither aged nor fat.

Alexander was muscled, evidence that he actively trained at arms. The last vestige of a tan faded from his hands and face. There was a dark tangle of hair upon his chest and a darker one somewhat lower, a finer smattering of dark hair on his forearms and legs. His thick ebony lashes would have served any woman proudly, but there was no doubting his gender. She studied his firm lips, still slightly curved in sleep as if he dreamed of some hilarious jest. It was his merriment that beguiled her, his humor in contrast with his thoughtfulness.

She stood a long time and gazed upon him. Reassured that he did not waken or move or expire, she stretched out on the bed alongside him. She ensured that she did not touch him at any point despite the chill in her limbs.

But no sooner had she pulled up the coverlet than Alexander curled up behind her. Eleanor stiffened in shock as he slipped an arm around her waist, her eyes flying open. He grunted and pulled her closer, coaxing her back against his chest, her buttocks against his thighs.

She stiffened, startled, and waited for the amorous assault that would surely come. But the moments passed, and Alexander did not seize her breast or force his erection against her.

Indeed, he did not seem to have an erection. His breath stirred her hair, his breathing slow and deep. And he was warm, blessedly warm. His lips were against her shoulder, his brow at the back of her neck, as if he had fallen asleep while pressing a kiss to her nape.

He was asleep. Of course. The elixir had ensured that he would not be otherwise. They laid together, like two spoons on a shelf, an intimate yet not sexual embrace.

Eleanor had never been embraced, not without a specific sexual goal in her partner’s thoughts. She dared to place her hand over Alexander’s hand, which rested on the mattress before her belly.

He immediately, instinctively, entwined their fingers, then nestled his knees more closely behind hers. Again she caught her breath, but their interlocked fingers were the sum of his objective. She marveled at this. She felt cosseted, surrounded by his warmth, protected.

Safe. She felt his pulse, letting its regular pace soothe her like a lullaby. She closed her eyes, the sanctuary Alexander offered to her welcome beyond belief.

Fortune had finally smiled upon Eleanor and she was not so fool as to spurn that lady’s offerings.

* * *

Alexander awakened the following morning with a groan.

He rolled to his back, then grimaced at the clamor in his head. He opened his eyes warily, intending to seek the rat that had apparently slept in his mouth, and was assaulted by a rogue beam of sunlight. He fell back against the linens, stunned.

He might have lingered abed, but it became imperative that he hasten to the bucket beneath the window. His belly churned then settled, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. At least he had not emptied his belly’s contents. A bead of sweat coursed down his back and he felt unwell.

Alexander leaned against the wall, wondering at his state. How much had he drunk the night before? Indeed, what had happened the night before? His thoughts were an uncommon muddle.

He kept his eyes closed as considered his course. Morning had clearly come, but he was exhausted. How long had he slept? He recalled little of the night before, so little that he was leery of the truth. There had been wine, he remembered that, and he had spurned responsibility.

Wine and music and himself carefree -- and a beauteous woman named Eleanor. Alexander groaned, certain he must have offended her beyond expectation. His tongue felt thick and foul, unfamiliar in his mouth. His head hurt; indeed, his very marrow ached.

What had he done?

His signet ring was gone, its familiar weight absent from his finger. He recalled his appointment of a Lord of Misrule and was relieved that Matthew would yet have the ring.

“And a merry Christmas to you,” a woman said at startling proximity.

Alexander yelped and straightened, his eyes wide open now. Mercifully, the wall did not show any inclination to move, as he was compelled to hold fast to it to keep his balance.

He gaped at Eleanor, who reclined upon his bed wearing no more than one of his sheets. Her hair hung loose, the golden tresses cascading over her bare shoulders and pooling upon the mattress. Her pose was stiff, as if she knew not what to expect from him, and her gaze was wary if not condemning.

Suddenly there were a number of pertinent details about the previous night that Alexander would have paid his soul to recall. How had Eleanor come to be in his bed? And what had happened once she had arrived there?

He, too, was nude, which might have been promising had the lady looked more pleased. Alexander had never been so intoxicated that he had disappointed a lady—much less that he could not recall having done so—and this morning, with this lady, was in his estimation a poor place to begin such a habit.

Nonetheless, he could not remember.

He washed, taking elaborate care with his toilet, even as he tried to muster his thoughts. There was a cup of ale left for him, perhaps by a thoughtful Anthony who knew he would need ale to spurn ale’s effects. He rinsed his mouth thrice, then quaffed a goodly swallow of the ale, reassured that his belly welcomed it.

Alexander returned to the bed and eased his weight to his elbow as he stretched out beside Eleanor, endeavoring to look unsurprised by her presence. He doubted, however, that her keen gaze had missed his astonishment.

He sighed in mock dismay. “I see that you do not smile as yet.”

“Would you abandon your quest then?”

Alexander watched Eleanor, unable to understand her hard tone. What had he forgotten? Something of import, he would wager. It was unlike him to forget anything, but there were great gaps in his recollection of the night before.

“I am nothing if not persistent in pursuit of my goals,” he said, then reached across the expanse of the bed to touch her. “We must still try to coax your smile. After all, the most lofty goal is not won by a man who abandons the quest too soon.”

His hand very nearly landed upon her waist, then his fingers closed upon empty air. Eleanor had slipped from the far side of the bed, eluding his caress in the last moment. She even took the linens with her and wrapped them about herself with a fierce gesture, ensuring that he did not win the barest glimpse of her nudity.

What had he done to insult her? For she was insulted, of that he could have no doubt. Her lips were set in a thin line and her eyes snapped with a fire that would have been more beguiling had it been born of ardor instead of anger.

“Perhaps you would prefer to meet the bold wench who offered you a morsel from her trencher.”

Alexander fought to recall this detail. “Anna, the ostler’s daughter?” He scratched his head, and even that hurt. “I should think she would have found another suitor by this time.”

“But she is ambitious all the same, to try to tempt the laird himself. We might well find her outside the door, awaiting your favor.”

Alexander grinned. “Hardly that! Anthony would not endure it.”

“Anthony?”

“My castellan. All must slumber in their place, by his reckoning. He does not rest until all is as it should be.”

“Which explains, of course, my presence here. Does he oft indulge your whimsy in taking women to your bed?”

“I do not take women to my bed...”

Eleanor coughed, politely correcting him.

“Perhaps you seduced me,” he teased. “Perhaps you evaded Anthony’s keen eye to join me abed. You said you were a courtesan, after all.”

“Perhaps not.” And she gestured then with a single finger to the mattress.

Alexander frowned and looked downward in confusion, the vivid red stain upon the linens silencing any clever comment he might have made. He gaped. He blinked. He shook his head, but there was the mark of a broken maidenhead upon his linens all the same.

No wonder she was vexed. Indeed, he was vexed himself that he did not recall this particular mating.

When he glanced up, wordless for once in his life, Eleanor regarded him coolly. She was wrapped fully in that linen sheet, one end cast over her shoulder, her arms folded across her chest.

“You are not a courtesan,” he said.

“You were right in that.”

Alexander shook his head, still fighting to make sense of the blood. “You said you were twice widowed.”

“And without a child from either match,” she said quietly, then arched a brow, as if daring him to calculate how that circumstance might have come to be.

Alexander fell back across the mattress, perplexed beyond belief. Eleanor, the most enticing woman he had met in years, had been wed twice and two different men had failed to consummate their match with her. They might have been elderly men or sickly men, but Alexander could not imagine forgoing a consummation with Eleanor if he were dead.

Perhaps the lady had been the one to decline.

Then why would she have surrendered her all to him, on the first night of their acquaintance, and that when he was drunk? He glanced her way, finding her as impassive as previously.

Oh, he had erred beyond belief.

“Why? Why me?”

Eleanor shrugged. “I was curious.”

“I was drunk!”

“Yet amorous all the same.”

“But I remember nothing of it!” He sat up and looked around the chamber. He resisted the urge to protest the unfairness of it all. “I do not even recall returning here.”

She watched him, her expression turning shrewd. “Perhaps that was part of your allure.”

“What is this?” Alexander rose from the bed in one bound, casting the linens aside and pursuing her across the chamber. The floor was cold but he did not care.

Eleanor’s eyes widened, and perhaps her grip upon the linens tightened somewhat, but she did not retreat. They stood toe to toe and he could smell the sweet sleepy scent of her flesh, see the myriad hues of green in her eyes.

“You chose me because I would be oblivious?” he demanded, incredulous when she nodded minutely. “What manner of woman wishes an insensible lover? What manner of woman uses a man for her own pleasure and grants nothing in return?”

She tilted her head to regard him. “Have you not known men to do as much?”

“No! Yes!” Alexander shoved a hand through his hair and paced the width of the chamber. “It is not of import.”

“Have you not done as much yourself?”

He flushed, then glared at her. “If so, it was different.”

Eleanor folded her arms more tightly across her chest. “As was this. It matters little what I have done, much less why. What is done is done.”

“What has been done is but begun,” Alexander retorted. Before she could retreat, he caught her chin in his hand and kissed her. His was not a forceful embrace, but it clearly surprised her. She stiffened, but Alexander slanted his mouth across hers.

He would have a kiss to remember, if not more.

She kissed like a virgin, breathless and tentative and frightened of what he might do. It was as if she had never embraced a man before. Alexander saw that red stain in his mind’s eye. Perhaps she was sore this morning. Perhaps he had not been as gentle as he might have been. Perhaps he had injured her.

He wished he could have recalled. He felt a surge of compassion for her and lifted his lips from hers. She regarded him in astonishment for moment, then stepped back.

“I trust that will suffice to sate you,” she said, her words hoarse.

Alexander felt a cur, but he was determined to not leave this matter be. “It will not begin to suffice,” he murmured, savoring her quick glance of confusion.

“What do you mean?” She was uncertain, so uncertain that she was not able to hide her thoughts from him. Could it be that the lady was unaware of her many charms?

Alexander knew how he would become better acquainted with this lady. He would disarm her with his caress. It might take years, but he would show her the pleasure that could be found abed, he would court her and cajole her, and he would win the conquest of that smile.

There was but one way to do that honorably, for he had already taken more than had been his to claim.

Alexander smiled with a confidence he did not quite feel. “We will be wed this morn,” he said with resolve, fully anticipating that she would spurn him. “It will never be said that the Laird of Kinfairlie does not finish what he has begun.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed but she gave no other hint that she was surprised, though surely she must be. She glanced toward the bed, swallowed and then nodded with a meekness he had not known she possessed. “So it shall be,” she agreed quietly.

Alexander hesitated for a heartbeat. From any of his sisters, such complacency would have been a sign of conspiracy, but Eleanor regarded him, her eyes wide with innocence. He smiled and closed the distance between them once more.

“Such an agreement should be sealed with a kiss,” he murmured.

“Surely once will do?” she said, her words breathless.

“Surely not. Your kiss is most restorative, my lady fair. Perhaps it will even restore my recollection of our first night abed together.” Her eyes widened at that prospect. “Surely you cannot fear as much,” he teased. Alexander winked when she said nothing, then claimed her lips anew.

* * *

His was a kiss that changed all.

Eleanor had never been courted with a kiss. She had been bussed, she had been used for a man’s pleasure, she had been bedded for duty and treated like property.

She have never been seduced.

She had never been granted the gift of time. Alexander kissed as if he did not care how long it took her to become accustomed to his touch, as if he did not care how long it took to rouse her ardor. He kissed as if he expected to both give and receive pleasure.

It was wondrous, this kiss of his, and she indulged herself in a newfound pleasure. Something thawed within her, something opened like a blossom touched by the sun’s heat.

Eleanor closed her eyes, for it was but a kiss, and lost herself in sensation. She parted her lips, inviting him closer, and caught her breath when he deepened his kiss. Still he cajoled, still she suspected that she could halt him with a fingertip, still she surrendered more.

His kiss was pure sorcery. There was no unbridled violence in his embrace, to be sure, and conviction of that dissolved Eleanor’s resistance. He did not judge her and find her wanting, he did not desire only one deed of her.

He courted her for her own self. Eleanor found her hands sliding across his shoulders, her fingers kneading the muscled strength of him then twining in the thick waves of his hair. She found herself welcoming his embrace like the courtesan she had professed to be, she found herself meeting him touch for touch and yearning for more.

His hand rose to her breast, cupping its weight, his thumb sliding across her nipple, teasing it to a point. Eleanor arched her back, fairly pressing herself against him, and he made a sound of pleasure that thrilled her. She wanted only to coax him closer. She could not think sensibly. She could not remain angry that he had forgotten his own victory in his quest. She could not consider anything of import beyond the persuasive pressure of Alexander’s kiss.

And that was dangerous indeed. She had never known a man determined to court her favor, for its own merit. Eleanor wished heartily that they had met abed the night before, that he had claimed her maidenhead, that she was not deceiving him.

The recollection of her trick was sobering. Eleanor broke their kiss with an effort. She pushed Alexander away, so that there was step between them, as well as a great deal else.

He watched her, his gaze simmering, then leaned his fists on the wall on either side of her shoulder. Though he did not touch her, she was trapped within the circle of his arms. To be trapped, to see his determination, to note his fists upon the wall, all combined to awaken an old fear. Eleanor caught her breath.

Did his sweet kiss make her forget all that she knew?

“I am yet sore,” she lied hastily. She ducked under his arm and quickly put the width of the chamber between them.

Alexander let her go, much to her relief.

When she dared to glance back, he stood with feet braced against the floor, arms folded across his chest, splendidly nude. His expression was difficult to read and he was uncommonly still.

“Did I injure you last evening?” His softly uttered question seemed to echo in the chamber, seemed to hang in the air and demand a reply.

He had not, of course, though the suggestion offered an easy means of keeping his caresses to a minimum. Eleanor shrugged. “No more than most men would have done, I assume.” She turned away, as if unable to look upon him, but not so quickly that she did not see him wince.

She felt badly then, for he did not recall the truth and she used his ignorance against him. But encouragement would undoubtedly see her back in his arms, and the truth would see him rescind his proposal. Eleanor had never been so caught between truth and her own objectives and she knew not what to say.

Worse, her lips burned in recollection of Alexander’s caress, making her think of matters more earthy. It was not like her to yearn for a man’s caress. She needed a moment to collect her wits, to think clearly.

“I am sorry,” Alexander said and she heard his footsteps as he crossed the floor. “Grant me this chance, Eleanor, to win your regard. Wed me and let me court you abed anew. Let me show you that our nights abed together do not have to repeat our first one.” He offered his hand then and she liked his resolve. “Put your hand in mine, Eleanor, wed me and let us put a poor beginning behind us. It can be done.”

She straightened. “I had thought you a man to put value in a quest.”

“And so I am.” He tilted his head to regard her, his eyes dancing with those delightful twinkles again. “Surely it will not be so onerous to have a knight laboring for your favor, all of each day and all of each night.”

“But you won my smile already. Do not tell me that you have forgotten even your own triumph?”

He stared at her, aghast, and she knew that he did not recall. Had the potion stolen away his recollection, or was he so careless about winning the favor of women that he would have forgotten even without the potion?

Eleanor wished she could know the truth.

She also wished she did not feel so shrewish for having stolen the laughter from his eyes.

Alexander shoved a hand through his hair. “I am doubly indebted to you then, and must labor stridently to win your favor. I apologize, Eleanor. I do not know what happened to me last night.”

Eleanor glanced away, awkward in her own knowledge.

“Allow me the chance to win your favor again.” He bowed deeply over her hand, and should have looked comical in his nudity. Instead, Eleanor was aware of the breadth of him, the strength of him, and the masculinity of him. She desired him with such sudden vigor that she could not catch her breath. “Trust that I am at your service, as all men of merit should be at the service of ladies in peril.”

“I am not in peril,” she corrected hastily.

Alexander granted her a stern glance. “Of course you are. You are in peril of losing your heart, for I intend to win that prize next.” He touched his finger to the bare skin revealed above the sheet, touching her just above the place where her heart beat wildly in response to his very presence. “You may be certain that I will never surrender that prize, once it is securely within my grasp.”

Eleanor felt her eyes widen. She could smell his skin. Warmth emanated from that small point of contact and she saw how Alexander’s eyes darkened to indigo. She licked her lips, unable to not do so, and he watched the tip of her tongue greedily. He whispered her name and stepped closer. She felt his erection against her hip, felt only the smooth barrier of cloth between them, but curiously she had no desire to flee.

“But why?” she asked, her voice sounding so husky that it might not have been her own.

He smiled. “Because it is right and proper for a man to hold his lady wife’s heart, just as she should so possess his.”

Eleanor stared up at him, astonished by his whimsical endorsement of love. She had never been so aware of a man, had never lusted for a man’s touch as she did in this moment. She wanted to meet Alexander abed, this very morning, though she was astonished by the power of her own desire.

Alexander bent his head and touched his lips to hers. This kiss was tentative, as if he asked her permission to continue, and its effect was more heady than that of the finest wine.

Eleanor closed her eyes and lifted her lips more resolutely to his. Alexander’s mouth closed over hers with possessive ease, his hands locked around her waist. He lifted her against his chest and kissed her thoroughly this time.

Marvel of marvels, Eleanor was not afraid. She opened her mouth, she echoed his every gesture, she tasted of him as he feasted upon her. She forgot herself, her past, her fears, and knew only that she wanted the heat of Alexander Lammergeier within her.

Immediately.

In that moment, the key was suddenly and noisily turned in the lock of the door to the solar.

* * *

“Merry Christmas!” shouted Alexander’s family. Five sisters and two brother-in-laws poured over the threshold. Their anticipation of what they would find was nigh tangible.

What they did find made them gasp aloud in astonishment.

Alexander swore. He shoved Eleanor behind him and she felt her face burn. She dropped her brow to the back of his shoulder, savoring the shield he made, though she was the one who had the linens. He stood nude before his blushing sisters and stared down the chuckles of his brothers-in-law. Those men hastily barricaded the view of the younger sisters while their wives laughed aloud.

“Alexander!” Madeline gasped. “You rogue!”

“He is more the rogue than ever we imagined,” Vivienne agreed.

“I suppose,” Alexander said, even as he seized the end of Eleanor’s sheet and wound it around his hips, “that you all find it amusing to interrupt me abed with my intended bride.”

“Bride!” Madeline and Vivienne declared in unison and mock astonishment, then exchanged a conspiratorial glance that Eleanor was certain would reveal their involvement to Alexander.

“Yes, bride,” he said, apparently oblivious to this exchange. “Elizabeth, please inform Anthony that there will be nuptials celebrated this very morning. Isabella, please tell Father Malachy, as well...”

“But the banns...” that sister protested.

“Will be waived,” Alexander said with resolve. “If he wishes to argue the matter, we can do so when my lady and I reach the chapel.” He claimed Eleanor’s hand and granted her a glance that she did not doubt was supposed to be reassuring. “It will be a short argument.”

“You have evidence upon your side,” she said, reminding him of the linens and Alexander nodded crisply.

“Indeed, I do. Madeline, would you gather the bed linens and Annelise can ensure that the priest and the household see them.” Eleanor noted that he had dispatched his maidenly sisters from the solar with haste. “And I would beg the aid of all of my enchanting sisters in seeing Eleanor fittingly attired. It would be a good portent if she wore some new garb for our nuptials.”

“Oh, he flatters us,” Vivienne said with a smile. “Surely that means trouble ahead for all of us.”

“Have you brothers, Eleanor?” Isabella asked with mock innocence, then Alexander roared and sent them all scattering.

“I should find some garb more fitting than the linens,” he said to Eleanor when they were alone. She had only the warning of his mischievous wink before he flicked the sheet away from her, leaving her nude before him. Eleanor covered her breasts with her hands before she realized the folly of what she did.

Oblivious to her gesture, Alexander marched across the floor, then claimed the key. He frowned for a moment that it was on the outside of the door and Eleanor was certain he would realize that they had been locked in, not that they had locked the others out. He then shook his head and locked the portal with a flourish before turning to face Eleanor anew. Her heart fairly stopped, so familiar was this circumstance.

A nude man with an erection, a formidable man with a determined gleam in his eye, had locked her in his chamber and taken away her sole garb. Despite what Eleanor thought she knew of Alexander, a raw panic seized her.

The situation was too familiar, its ending all too sure. A trio of kisses and she was as much a fool as once she had been. A trio of kisses and she forgot what a man could do when his merest whim was denied.

“And what were we doing before we were so rudely interrupted?” he mused, his confident manner and his nudity feeding her terror.

“Nothing!” Eleanor cried, to his obvious astonishment. She lunged for the portal, uncaring that she had not a thread with which to cover herself. Alexander made to catch her about the waist, but Eleanor tripped him.

Alexander cursed as he fell. “What ails you?” he cried, then cursed as he hit his knee on the floor. The key loosed from his grip and danced across the floor.

Eleanor fairly fell upon the key, then raced to the door.

“Eleanor! You kissed me readily enough a moment past!”

Eleanor shoved the key into the lock with shaking fingers and ran into the corridor, leaving an astonished man behind her.

“What have I done?” Alexander bellowed, but Eleanor paid him no need. He cursed audibly but did not immediately pursue her.

Eleanor fled down the stairs. She managed to descend only one flight before the sisters surrounded her, all a-chatter with what she might wear, and coaxed her into their chambers. She stood quivering amidst them, willing her wild heartbeat to slow. Silks and samites were spilled across the floor, slippers mingled in disarray and stockings piled before trunks. A plump maid shouted for order to no avail.

Eleanor sat down heavily upon a trunk and heaved a sigh of relief when the door was barred against men. Her breathing slowed and she calmed enough to realize that Alexander had probably only desired to finish his kiss.

And then she felt seven kinds of fool for having fled his side.

The man would certainly think her witless. And indeed, Eleanor would not have argued that view, for her own deeds might well cost her the respite at Kinfairlie that she so ardently desired.

* * *

There was a particular kind of insanity loose in Alexander’s hall, and he did not know what to make of it. He could not fathom Eleanor’s sudden fear of him, nor could he satisfactorily explain his determination to ease her fear. She was an enigma and a conundrum, a woman determined to keep her secrets, and he should have been content to let her have them.

Instead, he wanted to aid her.

And truly, he wanted to meet her abed again, for this time, he would be certain to recall the deed. He certainly would not forget the sight of her smile, should she ever grace him with another. He needed time to name and exorcise the many demons that plagued her, and marriage would grant the gift of time.

Indeed, the more he thought about the matter, the more Alexander was convinced that his fascination with the lady was a good omen for their future together -- although that argument might have been more persuasive if the woman had not fled him in terror.

Surely he had not lifted a hand against her the night before? The prospect stilled his steps. He could not imagine so doing. Surely he had not destroyed any chance of winning the lady’s trust? Alexander wished he could have been certain.

How strange that he had slept so deeply. He did not think that he had drunk that much of the wine. He had been too concerned in winning Eleanor’s smile. It was doubly curious that the key to the lock on his chamber door had been on the outside of the door. Had he heard the key turn before his family had interrupted Eleanor’s delightful kiss?

And why had they come to his chamber, as if they expected something of him? It was most uncommon. Usually he met them in the hall, though he supposed that habits were broken during the holidays.

Perhaps they had witnessed more of his courtship of Eleanor than he recalled. Perhaps they had guessed what—or who—they might find in his chamber.

If that were not sufficient to puzzle a man—never mind one whose head ached as Alexander’s did—there was other oddity in his hall. It seemed to him—and admittedly, he was less than his usual self on this morn—that everyone knew of his nuptials before being told of them. Alexander was well aware that gossip was fleet of foot, but truly, it seemed that everyone at Kinfairlie had known of his intent to wed on this day before Alexander had guessed as much himself.

Anthony had already made preparations for a feast and the kitchens were redolent of meat being roasted and stewed. There was bread baking and eggs cooking and vegetables boiling, and all this by the time Alexander left his chamber, mere moments after persuading Eleanor to accept his suit. The tables were being set in the hall and there were peasants clustering around the portal already, spoons and bowls and napkins expectantly in hand.

It was Christmas Day, to be certain, but at Kinfairlie there was usually a feast on Christmas Eve in the laird’s hall and then not until Twelfth Night.

But everyone appeared to know that tradition was to be broken this year, no less that it was being broken for a wedding.

Alexander supposed that he must have courted Eleanor amorously indeed the night before, for his intentions to have been so clearly read by even his vassals.

Or was there another explanation?

The way his sisters giggled together certainly had a way of making a man suspicious that all might not be as it appeared. Perhaps this was all an elaborate prank, in which Eleanor participated, and she had no intention of wedding him in truth.

Perhaps Eleanor’s flight from his kiss had been a hint of what was to come. Alexander would not put it past his sisters to play a jest upon him. As he put his hall in order and issued commands for his wedding day, Alexander braced himself for the worst. Aye, he could imagine Vivienne and Madeline thinking that a public embarrassment at the altar would be fitting retribution for his matchmaking for them.

Perhaps they did not know—or had not anticipated—that the lady felt a measure of attraction to him. Alexander knew a thing or two about women and, although Eleanor was more mysterious than most, there was no doubting that she welcomed his kiss.

Perhaps she could be persuaded to accept him truly, in defiance of whatever scheme his sisters had. The prospect of that put a spring in Alexander’s step as he went about his morning duties.

Chapter Four

Eleanor indulged herself with a dream.

She stood on the threshold of Kinfairlie’s chapel on Christmas morning, the warmth of sunlight on her head and shoulders, the sparkle of fresh snow all around her. The air was crisp, and the rumble of the sea carried from the cliffs beyond Kinfairlie’s shores.

She was dressed in vivid crimson, a gossamer veil of golden silk wound over her head and gloriously gilded red leather slippers upon her feet. Alexander’s sisters had raided their own stores of garments to dress her appropriately for her nuptials and she felt resplendent in red and gold. She had been surrounded by five laughing women, as intent upon seeing her look her best as if they had been her own blood sisters.

She knew they had accomplished their goal, for Alexander’s eyes had glowed when she had first stepped into his hall. He had claimed her hand, kissed her knuckles and not allowed her to be parted from his side since. It was intoxicating to be the focus of his attention and Eleanor dared to dream that this day would not end.

Alexander had not pressed her about her flight from his side, though he seemed determined to keep her close and for this, she was grateful. He had even refused to hear her apology, insisting instead upon offering his own.

Eleanor’s heart pounded in a most unfamiliar way and she knew that her cheeks were rosy. She wondered whether a measure of the starlight in Alexander’s eyes had entered her own. She took a chance in defiance of all she had learned, but hope for a better future was a potent lure indeed.

Alexander gave her hope, a rare gift for one who had seen and experienced as much as Eleanor.

Alexander held her hand fast within his own even now as Father Malachy raised his hand in blessing. Alexander’s siblings were gathered behind them, and the peasants of Kinfairlie clustered behind them, the entire company smiling. Alexander slid his thumb across Eleanor’s hand, a leisurely caress that made her mouth go dry.

She risked a glance in his direction and found his gaze upon her, his eyes dancing with that barely contained merriment that she found so enticing. He looked pleased to be standing beside her, pleased to be exchanging vows with her.

As if he had chosen her himself to be his bride.

As if they had chosen each other. Eleanor added that element to her dream. He was finely wrought, this man intent upon taking her to wife, this man she had tricked. And he was honorable, so honorable that Eleanor felt remorse for having deceived him.

Eleanor chose to believe for a moment that this was a match that would endure, that Alexander would not prove to be a brute, that this sunny Christmas morning might bode well for her future. And she indulged herself with the impossibility of this being her first match, perhaps her only match. What if she had been a virgin the night before? The lie with which she had snared Alexander was so much more appealing than the truth that she wished fervently that it could be the truth.

Her hand rose, seemingly of its own volition, to caress the crucifix that she always wore beneath her kirtle, the crucifix that should grace her garb at her nuptial vows, but found nothing.

Of course, the gem was no longer there. Eleanor had worn it for so long that she still forgot that it was gone. She caught her breath, knowing that the presence of her heirloom would have blessed this match as it could not have blessed her last two. She told herself that the loss of the gem was a small price to pay in exchange for her life.

“What is amiss?” Alexander whispered. He looked concerned in truth, so concerned that she felt the need to grant him a reply.

“I lost a gem of my mother’s and miss it still.” Eleanor shrugged, as if the matter was not of import.

“What manner of gem?”

“A crucifix. It was merely a sentimental piece,” she lied, not wanting him to realize that she had possessed any heirloom of such value as the ruby-studded golden crucifix that Ewen had seized.

To her dismay, Alexander was not deterred. The priest cleared his throat pointedly, but Alexander continued their conversation all the same. “You do not seem the manner of woman to lose things, especially items of sentimental value,” he murmured, his gaze assessing. “Should we seek it?”

“Nonetheless I did lose it and lost it long ago.” Eleanor looked back at the priest, willing him to continue. “It is gone, gone beyond reclamation.” The priest’s gaze flicked between the pair of them, and his lips tightened in displeasure. Eleanor bowed her head deeply as if contrite.

Alexander tightened his grip upon her fingers. “You must describe it to me and I will seek another,” he said as he bowed his head in turn.

Eleanor caught her breath. She was touched that he would make such an offer purely to see her pleased, before she recalled that he could not do as much. “Surely you should not waste whatsoever lurks in your coffers upon such a frippery?” she said quietly and he inhaled sharply. She felt rude then for reminding Alexander of the truth of his financial situation.

Father Malachy crossed himself and said “Amen” before he glowered at the inattentive pair before him. Alexander granted the man such a smile that his scowl immediately began to soften. The company echoed the blessing with gusto, then Alexander slid a heavy ring on to the ring finger of Eleanor’s left hand.

She looked down at it, surprised by its weight, and was more surprised by the ring itself. A large round emerald fairly filled her knuckle, its green depths gleaming, its circumference marked with a plethora of small white pearls. It was a doughty piece and one no man without means could have acquired.

Had Alexander lied about his lack of coin? Or were the Lammergeier truly the thieves they were reputed to be?

Her astonishment must have shown when she met his gaze, for Alexander grinned.

“It was my mother’s wedding ring,” he said. “My father accepted it as his sole claim from Ravensmuir’s hoard of treasures, and my mother left it in the treasury for safekeeping before they undertook the journey that proved to be their last.” He touched a fingertip to her chin. “I could scarce bear to look upon it before this morning, but now the gem reminds me of the hue of your eyes.”

“You could sell it, if you lack for coin.”

“Never,” he said with ferocity. “There are treasures with value beyond their price.”

“You should keep it, then, in case you might have need of it.”

His lips tightened and he spoke with vigor. “I should surrender it to my lady wife, as my parents doubtless intended I should do, that it might gleam from its rightful place upon her hand.”

Eleanor blinked, for she knew not what to say in the face of such generosity. She was honored beyond belief by this gift and ashamed anew that she had tricked him. Words evaded her.

Eleanor had little chance to speak, though, for Alexander bestowed yet another of his bewildering kisses upon her. Appreciative of his thoughtfulness, she leaned into his embrace after only the barest hesitation. She savored his heat and the crisp scent of him, welcomed his caress with a remarkable confidence that he would not press her too far.

She would do her best to serve him well as his wife.

The company cheered at this public show of affection and Eleanor’s cheeks heated, but Alexander continued his languorous kiss. One of his hands cupped her nape, the other held fast to her left hand, enclosing the ring that she now bore. Once again, Eleanor felt cosseted and safe. Heat spread to her very toes and her flesh tingled, her hand rose to his shoulder and she eased to her toes, wanting more of whatsoever he offered.

Alexander broke their kiss all too soon, his smile warm as he gazed upon her. Eleanor smiled in return and like how his eyes lit.

“This is a finer beginning,” he said, for her ears alone, and Eleanor felt herself flush. Her heart was light, lighter than she could ever recall it being.

Father Malachy tutted at Alexander with little censure, then turned and led the company into the chapel to celebrate the mass. Alexander gallantly offered his elbow to Eleanor and his sisters beamed at what they had wrought.

It was perfect. This was as Eleanor had dreamed her nuptials would be and the truth of it put a lump in her throat. If this was illusion, it was not only artful but one she ardently desired.

The candles had been lit and the priest had just lifted the Eucharist when destriers came galloping into Kinfairlie’s village. Eleanor knew in that instant that her fledgling dream was to be shattered. She braced herself for the worst, even as she bitterly regretted that her past should prove to be so fleet of foot.

* * *

Alexander heard the horses and would have thought little of it, had Eleanor not started in such alarm. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide, and her fingers tightened upon his. He looked at her just as the portal opened, heard her catch her breath and saw the color drain from her face.

Then she pivoted to face Father Malachy anew. Alexander knew he did not imagine that her hand trembled within his, though she stood tall and straight.

He glanced back then and his own lips thinned at the new arrivals. It was the Black Douglas clan, the oddly fair Alan at the fore of the party. There was something uncanny about Alan, more than the pallor of his eyes or the strange fair blond of his hair. Just the sight of him made people awkward.

Alan’s party marched noisily into the chapel, sparing no respect for the service in progress. Alan smiled at the sight of Eleanor, though his was not a kind smile. It was a smile put Alexander in mind of hungry wolves and he pulled Eleanor closer to his side. Rhys and Erik followed Alexander’s gaze and eased their wives away from the center of the chapel.

Alan cast his helm and gloves to a squire, then made his way through the chapel. The peasants fell out of his path, and muttering followed in his wake. He pushed his way between Erik and Rhys, neither of whom granted him any quarter, then reached for Eleanor’s elbow. How did he know her?

Eleanor never glanced up, but she pulled her arm abruptly out of his reach.

“Well met, sister,” Alan said, interrupting the priest.

“Is that the truth of it?” Eleanor murmured.

“Hardly well met at all,” Alexander said, wondering at the link between these two. Were they siblings? “Have you no respect for the divine offices?”

“Earthly matters are of greater import in this moment,” Alan said, then seized Eleanor’s left hand, lifting it so that the light played in the gem Alexander had just placed upon her finger. “Ah, I see that I interrupt nuptial pledges.” His smile turned cruel as he studied Eleanor. “I always knew that you were a shrewd bitch, but this is cunning beyond expectation.”

Alexander’s sisters gasped as one. Rhys and Erik stepped forward at the insult offered to Alexander’s lady. Father Malachy caught his breath that such language would be used in church, but none had a chance to respond.

Alexander had already struck Alan. His fist landed solidly upon Alan’s nose. Alexander was not dissatisfied to hear a bone crack beneath his blow. Alan fell back, blood erupting from one nostril, and no one stepped forward to aid him.

Alan steadied himself and glanced over the watchful company. Eleanor said nothing, though her gaze flicked between the men, seemingly missing no nuance of response. Alan’s men made to move forward, but Alexander’s men blocked their progress.

Alan fingered his nose, which was swelling even as it reddened. He glared at Alexander. “I had always thought that you were not overly keen of wit.”

“And I have always found you to be devoid of chivalry, although this incident is far beyond anticipation,” Alexander retorted. “No one speaks to a noblewoman so coarsely upon my lands, much less in a chapel reliant upon my protection.”

“Amen,” said Father Malachy.

Alan only smirked. He straightened, then eyed Alexander anew. “Let me grant you some counsel, neighbor, and save you from your own error before it is fully made.”

“I do not welcome your counsel.”

“You should.” Alan snatched at Eleanor’s hand. He pulled the ring from her finger, even as she gasped in outrage, then cast it at Alexander. Alexander caught the ring and in that same moment, Alan hauled Eleanor to his side so quickly that she stumbled. “Keep your bauble, neighbor. This bride is fatal to claim.”

“No!” Eleanor protested, and pulled her hand from Alan’s grasp.

“The choice is not yours to make,” Alan said with a snarl. He grasped her hand again and Eleanor winced as his grip was clearly harsh.

“Is Eleanor your sister?”

“Nay.”

“Is she your niece or daughter?”

Alan granted Eleanor that unpleasant smile. “She is the widow of my brother, Ewen.”

Alexander blinked at this morsel of news, then glared at Alan. “Then the choice most certainly is the lady’s to make,” he said. He seized Alan’s wrist even as that man glared at him in defiance. Alexander was younger than Alan and he did not doubt that he was stronger. Indeed, he tightened his grip steadily upon the other man’s wrist until Alan’s grasp upon Eleanor was released.

Alan swore.

Eleanor pulled herself free with haste and the red mark upon her flesh made Alexander angry indeed.

“There is no cause to handle a woman thus!” Alexander urged the lady behind him. “You have no claim upon her, and less claim to give insult in my abode. Begone, Alan, before worse is said this day.”

Alan’s eyes narrowed. “You know little of the matter, it is clear. As my brother’s widow, and a widow whose own kin is dead, Eleanor’s future is mine to determine. I do have claim upon her, and I do intend to see justice served.”

“I owe you nothing!” Eleanor said with heat.

“The lady declines your kindly interest in her future,” Alexander said coldly. “And truly, there is no need for your involvement, as she has already wedded me.”

“Is this true?” Alan demanded of Eleanor.

“Indeed it is,” she said.

“And you wed him willingly, without coercion?”

Alexander felt Eleanor straighten behind him, and her words revealed that some of her determination had been restored. “That is an intriguing query from a man who would see me wed by force.”

To whom would Alan see Eleanor wed?

Alexander noted the avarice in Alan’s expression and thought he could guess the answer to that query. He assumed that Alan had a fancy for his late brother’s wife, one that was not reciprocated by that lady and one that was unacceptable by the church’s law. The realization made him doubly determined to defend her. His sisters had oft expressed fear of Alan Douglas and he could well understand why Eleanor might have fled that man.

“I but seek to ensure your welfare, sister,” Alan said.

“It is assured,” Alexander and Eleanor said in unison.

“You are far from your abode, neighbor,” Alexander added with pointed politeness. “And surely must make haste to see yourself at your own board this night.”

“We rest at Tivotdale this Yule, which is not so distant.” Alan nodded to Eleanor. “Though your bride could have told you as much, had she so chosen. She walked here from that hall, after all.”

That Eleanor had walked so far in the snow to evade Alan and his scheme told Alexander all he needed to know.

Alan sneered at Eleanor. “Did you walk to Kinfairlie specifically because you had heard tell that its laird was unwed?”

“No!” Eleanor retorted so hotly that Alexander believed it to be true. “I but fled, and knew not where I ran. The direction was of less intent than flight itself!”

Alan smiled and might have said more, but Alexander had heard sufficient. “Your presence is unwelcome upon these lands, Alan,” he said with resolve. “For you show yourself to be a poor guest. Leave now, and we may meet again in good cheer. If you remain, and continue to cause insult, that circumstance is less certain.”

“It is my intention merely to be a good neighbor and ally,” Alan said smoothly, bowing to Eleanor with a charm that only fed Alexander’s distrust. “I would simply warn you of the merit of the woman you would take to wife, before it is too late.”

“I know the lady’s merit,” Alexander said, recapturing Eleanor’s hand within his own. Her fingers were cold. He could well understand her fear of men if she had been wed to Ewen Douglas. That man had been a loud and violent drunkard, by Alexander’s reckoning.

“Do you?” Alan smiled that wolfish smile again. “Surely a man of sense would think twice afore taking a murderess to his bed?”

The company recoiled in shock, as clearly Alan had anticipated they would. He turned to his rapt audience and nodded as if confiding a secret in them. “It is true. We have hunted this viper for four days and nights, ever since in fact, we found my brother Ewen, her legally wedded spouse, murdered in his own bed at Tivotdale. There was no sign of his wife, save the trail of her departing footprints in the snow.”

The company gasped but Alan held up a finger. Alexander noted that the only person unsurprised by this revelation was Eleanor. She glared at Alan, her hatred undisguised.

It must be a filthy lie Alan told, and Alexander did not blame Eleanor for despising him for it.

“You make charges without proof,” Alexander said.

Alan held up a finger. “The only soul who had been in Ewen’s company was his lady wife, none other than the lady your laird would wed this morning. She had fled her own chamber in the middle of the night, with only the garb upon her back, and this upon the same night that my brother was killed.”

He regarded the company. “My brother Ewen disregarded the tales that were told of the demise of the lady’s first husband and the lady’s rumored part in that demise, and that to his own loss.”

He turned to Alexander, the cunning in his eyes doing little to persuade Alexander to believe him. “Save yourself now, neighbor, and spurn this woman before your match is consummated. She can only bring you grief.”

“And if Alexander spurns her, what then will be her fate?” Madeline demanded. Alexander did not doubt that his sister meant to make the full result of any such choice clear to him, but he had no intent of spurning Eleanor.

How could he surrender to the custody of a man who would so willingly defame her? Alexander did not doubt that worse than cruel words would await Eleanor beneath Alan’s hand.

Alan smiled his chilling smile. “She will return to our abode, and face justice as she deserves.”

Alexander watched Eleanor, whose expression was impossible to read. She arched a brow, as if anticipating what he might ask. “Do whatsoever you will, my lord,” she said, her tone tart. “It is not a woman’s place to choose, after all.”

Alexander saw that Eleanor expected little from him, and knew that her expectation had been learned. Doubtless Ewen had taught her to expect nothing, not even courtesy, from a spouse. That must have compounded the lessons of her first spouse.

Alexander would teach her to expect otherwise from her husband.

“It is, however, my wife’s place to remain at my side in Kinfairlie,” he said and knew he did not imagine the surprise that lit Eleanor’s eyes.

“What folly is this?” Alan said.

“No folly at all. I thank you, neighbor, for your counsel, but the lady and I have already consummated our match.” He drew Eleanor to his left side, where she rightly belonged, and bestowed a smile upon her. “I fear that we celebrated the nuptial night afore our nuptial vows were made. It matters little in the end, so long as both are completed in timely manner and neither of us are desirous of an annulment.”

“But this cannot be...” Alan protested.

Alexander snapped his fingers and beckoned. Vera, his sisters’ maid, came through the company, proudly bearing the stained linens from his own bed. The priest blessed the bloodstain and prayed for the favor of sons, while Alan’s brow darkened yet more.

“This is impossible,” he said with fury. “It proves nothing.”

“It proves that Ewen did not have blood in his veins,” Alexander said quietly. “If he was never tempted to claim his bride. It seems the lady’s two former husbands had much in common, though little of merit to be sure.”

The other man looked as if he would make a hot reply, but Alexander allowed him no chance to speak. “Has it not long been said that Ewen favored his ale above all else? Perhaps he fell in his chamber, being too besotted to find his own bed.”

“You know nothing of my brother or his nature!” Alan began, but Alexander shook his head.

“And you seem to know nothing of his demise. You offer only accusations. You offer no evidence against my wife, save her absence from your hall, and no proof of her guilt. There are those who must marvel that Ewen was not dead of his excesses years ago.”

“But...”

“In fact, your behavior shows the lady’s good sense in leaving Tivotdale once her spouse was dead. No woman of wit would expect justice from you.”

“You cannot argue with me! You have no right to harbor a murderess!”

“Your accusation is a poor gift to bring a neighbor on Christmas morn, no less upon his wedding day,” Alexander said, not acknowledging Alan’s interruption. “Further, you interrupt our celebration of this day’s miracle.” He met the older man’s gaze. “Join us or leave.”

“You cannot compel me...”

“Mine is Kinfairlie, and mine is the command of those upon its lands.” Alexander laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Make your choice.” He saw in the periphery of his vision that his two brother-in-laws had also dropped their hands to the hilts of their blades.

The chapel was silent for a moment, then Alan swore.

He pivoted and marched back to his men, snatching his gloves from the squire, then glared at Alexander. “This matter is not resolved between us,” he warned, but Alexander smiled.

“I say that it is ended, and rightly so.”

With that, Alexander turned his back upon the unwelcome visitor, fairly daring Alan to act upon his threat.

The other man left with a curse, as Alexander had guessed he would. The portal slammed and the sound of the horses carried through the chapel, the echo of hoof beats gradually fading from earshot. The company heaved a collective sigh of relief, then began to chatter.

Alexander lifted the ring between himself and Eleanor once more, holding it between his finger and thumb. He held it before her hand, and met her gaze, letting her decide whether to don it or not.

She studied him for a moment, marvel in her eyes. It was clear that the lady had not been defended from innuendo and rumor before, but Alexander meant to show her that marriage could be better than what she had known.

Without a word, she solemnly pushed her finger through the ring’s circle. He saw her blink back her tears and was heartened that she could grant him a chance, after whatever she had endured.

Ewen Douglas had been a brute and would not be mourned by many.

“It looks right upon your finger,” he whispered to her when its weight had slipped over her knuckle. “As if it was left to me, so I would have it to give to you.”

“I thank you,” she whispered. Then Eleanor smiled, a smile so brilliant as to leave Alexander dazed, a smile that he knew he would never cease to seek, much less that he would forget. “Your gift to me is beyond expectation,” she whispered, then tightened her fingers around his.

Alexander attended Father Malachy’s words only partly then, a lump in his throat and his bride’s hand fast within his. Against all odds, he had been granted a bride who made his blood simmer, and between them both, Alexander knew, they would make a marriage worth all the gold in Christendom. They might have had an unconventional beginning to their match, but that had not stopped his sisters from finding happiness.

So it would not halt him.

* * *

Moira Goodall had a talent for taking whatsoever pittance God had granted her and making the most of it. She had been granted a nature best for service, and she had served the Lady Yolanda faithfully until that lady died.

Further, she had undertaken the pledge that Lady Yolanda had demanded of her, upon that lady’s deathbed in the birthing chamber. She had served the lady’s daughter, Eleanor, from the moment that child made her first wail, and this despite the protests of Lady Yolanda’s husband and the lady Eleanor’s husbands. Moira had not always been made welcome in her mistress' new households, but she had a talent for making herself useful and she had managed each time to remain by Eleanor’s side.

God knew that the child had had need of her.

Moira also was plain of face, but she had offered that burden to God and had found usefulness in it as well. A man’s eye would pass over her so readily that she could join any company and her presence would neither be noted nor remembered. So it was that she had joined the company of Alan Douglas, mingling with the whores who followed any campaign, when he set out in pursuit of his brother’s widow. Moira guessed that avarice would ensure that Alan found Eleanor and she knew that he would never take note of her presence among those who trailed his company.

And so it was that Moira found her errant lady, albeit in happier circumstance than she might have hoped. Her loyal heart fairly burst to find her lady in Kinfairlie’s chapel, the laird himself looking upon her with the respect she deserved.

Moira left Tivotdale’s whores while Alan Douglas argued with the Laird of Kinfairlie. She eased herself amidst the merrymakers from Kinfairlie village as if she had been in their company all alone. Even the whores, so fascinated by events before themselves, never noted her departure from their midst.

So it was that Alan Douglas left Kinfairlie with one less soul in his party, none the wiser for Moira’s presence or her absence. No one would ever miss her at Tivotdale, this Moira knew well, and she could now serve her lady faithfully once more. There was but one soul in Kinfairlie who would recognize Moira, and Moira wished to be certain of her lady’s circumstance before she revealed herself.

Moira drew up her hood, remained within the company, and listened to every morsel that came to her ears. One never knew what detail one would have need of, especially in service to this ill-fated lady.

* * *

Choice.

How sweet it was that Alexander granted Eleanor the choice. He defended her, but then left it to her to decide to don his ring again. Eleanor had never been granted a choice, not by any man, and on this morning, she prayed with rare fervor, giving thanks that her footsteps had brought her to Kinfairlie’s gate.

She would give Alexander a son.

The notion came to her so suddenly that it might not have been Eleanor’s own, but she knew the rightness of it immediately. She would grant Alexander a son, for in so doing she would inherit her legacy and the survival of this precious sanctuary would be ensured. This was the gift she could give to him in exchange for the gift of choice he had granted to her.

This was what she could do to repay the debt she owed to him.

No sooner had she made her decision, no sooner had her heart began to thump with the prospect of meeting Alexander abed, than Father Malachy raised his hands and the company sang the end to the mass in unison. Then the assembly cheered and exchanged the kiss of peace, the chapel erupting in happy chatter.

Alexander seized Eleanor’s hand, doubtless intending to kiss her soundly, but in so doing, inadvertently pinched the cut upon her thumb. Eleanor winced and caught her breath at the stab of pain. The cut she had inflicted upon herself the night before was barely healed, and indeed, it began to bleed again.

Alexander looked down at her hand. He frowned at the clean cut, obviously guessing that it had been wrought by a blade. “You have injured yourself,” he said in some confusion.

“It was nothing,” she said so hastily that his gaze flew to meet hers.

“But it is a wound of considerable length,” he said, shaking his head. “I do not recall you being so injured this morn though it is fresh.”

“It happened last night.”

“Surely I did not so injure you?”

“No, no. I did it myself. Foolishly. With my eating knife. At the board.”

He studied her, a suspicion dawning in his eyes. “But I recall the end of the feast, and you did not use your knife throughout the meal.”

Eleanor licked her lips, remembering all too well how he had fed her morsels so seductively. She dropped her voice, her thoughts upon what they might do abed this night. “I had no need of one, as I recall, for you saw me sated.”

But Alexander frowned. “Indeed, I did not think you carried a knife.” He looked to her belt, which was in fact barren of a small blade, for Ewen had forbidden her to possess one.

“I must have left it in your sisters’ chamber,” Eleanor lied.

Alexander turned her hand and studied the cut, undeterred. Eleanor pulled her hand from his, but knew he did not cease to think about the matter.

“We should adjourn to the hall,” she said, hoping to distract him.

But Alexander glanced over the company with a frown. “They all knew of the nuptials before I did,” he mused and Eleanor feared he was overclose to the truth.

“But you were amorous last night,” she said with haste.

Alexander met her gaze. “I have never forgotten a lady abed,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “I heartily doubt that you would be the first.”

“Can there not be a first for every matter?” Eleanor heard the fear in her voice and knew she did herself no favors by answering him. Still, it seemed that she could not hold her tongue.

“There is an old trick,” he said quietly. His gaze fixed upon her, those stars notably absent from his eyes, and her heart began to pound. “When a woman wishes to be thought a maiden.”

“What would I know of such tricks?” Eleanor spoke too quickly, she saw, for Alexander’s eyes narrowed.

“What jest do you and my sisters play upon me?”

“None!”

“Tell me the truth of this cut. Tell me the truth of what occurred between us last night.” He straightened, looking so grim that Eleanor feared his judgment. “Tell me the truth of what I have done. Did I strike you? Did I give offense?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what occurred?”

Eleanor glanced about herself, but Alexander’s sisters had left the chapel, abandoning her to their brother’s difficult questions. She, cursedly, was a poor liar and, even worse, Alexander was dangerously perceptive.

“I see no need for such confessions,” she said with a shrug. “We are wed and happily so.” She leaned forward, initiating a kiss for the first time in her life, though it was but a peck upon his cheek. “Let us retire to our chamber, my lord, and leave the others to feast in our stead.”

Alexander stepped away. “What is at the root of Alan’s false accusations? Why do you fear him so?”

“That is hardly of import.”

“I think it is.”

“He means to wed me, in his brother’s stead,” she admitted, hoping it would deter his curiosity.

It did not. Alexander’s frown only deepened. “Why does he anticipate that you would do as much? Such a match would be most uncommon, indeed, it would be against the church’s law.”

“Which was why I would evade it, of course.”

“It makes little sense.” Alexander paced the width of the now-empty chapel, shoving a hand through his hair. “Why did you not confess to being Ewen’s widow? Do you not think it of import which of my neighbors I offend? I am scarce in a position to defend myself against them all.”

“It is but a cut!” Eleanor cried in frustration.

“Had you merely surrendered your name to me, I would have known the truth,” he retorted. “Why did you hide it from me?”

Eleanor flung out her hands. “How did a single wound upon my thumb awaken such doubts within you?”

“They must have been there all along,” he said, his manner grim. “But your beauty distracted me from their importance.”

It was impossible to be flattered by his comment in such context. “But these questions are not important, not to our match. Alan’s scheme is not relevant, not now!”

He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her. “Then answer my queries for me. If the truth matters so little, then your answers should not delay us overmuch.”

Eleanor took a deep breath, disliking the corner in which she found herself. Oh, for a child in her belly already!

But she had no child, and indeed they had not even met abed yet. She dared not confess as much to Alexander, though, for he could spurn her all too readily with that morsel of information.

And Alan was still dangerously close at hand.

“You are churlish to demand such confessions so soon after our nuptials,” she said, her tone light. “Surely we can discuss such matters at our leisure?”

Alexander glowered at her. “Answer but one question and I shall leave the matter be.”

Eleanor straightened, praying that he would not ask the one question that could send all awry. “Fair enough,” she said with a confidence she did not feel.

“Explain the cut to me.”

Eleanor felt her lips part though no words erupted for a moment. “Your sisters saw me injure myself,” she said in sudden inspiration. “I am certain that they will recall how inadvertent it was.” She forced a laugh. “Truly, Alexander, you make much of little.”

He watched her, his expression inscrutable. “Understand this, my lady fair. I will endeavor to build a marriage from a poor beginning, but I will not tolerate one based upon a lie. Honesty must be the cornerstone of our match, Eleanor, for without honesty, we can build nothing at all. Trust rests upon honesty’s foundation, as does affection and even love. All are undermined by deception and truly, there is nothing so capable of infuriating me as a lie.”

She did not like how his voice lowered. “And without honesty?” she dared to ask.

Alexander shook his head. “Then we have no match in truth, and it is but a formality to see such a false marriage annulled.” His sudden glance was piercing and she feared he would see her many secrets. “Did we meet abed last night? Did I claim your maidenhead in truth? Do not lie to me, Eleanor.”

Eleanor held his regard, for in this moment, she had no choice but to tell a falsehood. “Of course we did,” she lied, hoping against hope that Alexander never learned the truth.

And she was a poor liar, as poor a liar as she had feared. He studied her for a long moment and she knew she did not imagine either his delay in offering his hand to her or the formality of his posture.

He did not believe her.

She had lied to ensure this match, but in so doing had condemned it. There was a barrier between them, one that had not been there before. Just as he had said, her lie undermined all they might possess together.

As Eleanor put her hand within Alexander’s, she wondered what she could do to make this matter come aright.

* * *

Alexander was livid.

Eleanor lied. Despite his warning, despite his insistence that she provide him with the truth, despite his appeal for honesty between them, Eleanor lied. The blood upon his linens was from her thumb, he would have wagered his soul upon it.

Her husbands had not failed to consummate their matches. He had not assaulted the lady himself, much less bedded her. He had not forgotten what had occurred between them, for nothing had occurred. Eleanor had tricked him, undoubtedly with the aid of his conniving sisters, and they most assuredly all found it a merry jest.

He had not lied in declaring that nothing infuriated him more than a falsehood, unless perhaps it was a falsehood that could prove expensive for all beneath his hand.

His sisters and new wife knew nothing of the realities confronting him. His father had always allied with the Black Douglas family and now Alexander had alienated Alan. It would only be a matter of time before an army came to his gates and Kinfairlie would not be able to withstand a major assault. Alexander had no coin in his treasury to prepare for that inevitability. The prospect that those dependent upon him would suffer because of his sisters sought to see themselves amused infuriated him beyond all belief.

Alexander entered the hall in a foul mood, escorted Eleanor to the high table and left her there without a word. He spied Matthew and strode to that young man’s side.

“Matthew, you must still have my signet ring,” he said, his manner yet terse. “I would have it returned this morn.” Alexander put out his hand, and Matthew colored.

“I do not have it, my lord,” the younger man said.

“What is this?” Matthew’s father demanded. “You cannot have lost the laird’s signet ring!” Those seated at other tables turned at the miller’s raised voice.

“Where is the ring, Matthew?” Alexander asked, his patience nigh expired.

“I returned it to you, my lord,” Matthew said, his gaze darting along the floor. He seemed uncommonly shy this day.

Alexander feared that Matthew lied to him as well, but he strove to be fair. “When?”

“When, when you retired, my lord. I returned it to you then.”

Alexander exchanged a glance with the miller. “Are you certain of this? The ring does not grace my finger this morn.”

“Perhaps you did not don it this day, my lord.”

“Perhaps you did not return it, Matthew.”

“Do you call my son a liar, my lord?” the miller asked softly, and Alexander knew that his frustration with Eleanor had affected his manner.

“No, of course not,” he said, forcing a smile. “I am merely vexed because I cannot find the ring. As you know, it is the mark of my authority and not an item one would wish to misplace.”

Matthew stared stubbornly at the floor, his ears a vivid hue of red, and said no more.

The miller cleared his throat. “Perhaps you put it in a different place than is your custom, my lord,” he suggested. “You were not, after all, your usual self last night.”

“So I understand,” Alexander said. He nodded to miller and son, then strode back to the high table. It was strange how the evening ended so abruptly in his recollection, for he knew he had not drunk that much of the wine. Of course, he had not eaten much either, so the wine might have had a more potent effect upon him.

“Where is the ring?” Eleanor asked when he took his place beside her, for she clearly guessed his mission.

Alexander shrugged. “Matthew says he returned it to me, when I made to retire.”

“Liar!” she muttered.

Alexander spared her a glance, intrigued by her charge.

“I remember ever step betwixt high table and solar,” she said with such resolve that he believed her. “And Matthew did not return your ring.”

“I can scarce call him a liar when I do not recall events myself,” Alexander said.

“Then perhaps you should not have drunk so much wine,” Elizabeth teased.

“I did not drink much wine. That is what is so curious.” Alexander caught the guilty expression upon Isabella’s face, then noted the glance she exchanged with Madeline and Vivienne.

The odd manner spread down the high table. Rhys was suddenly grim. Eleanor had developed a fascination with her soup, though she only filled the spoon and let the soup dribble back into her bowl. Elizabeth seemed to savor a private joke while Annelise was crimson from hair to throat.

Alexander surveyed his siblings and pushed back slightly from the board. “In fact, the last thing I recall was you, Isabella, bringing Eleanor and I each a cup of wine.”

Isabella flushed scarlet in her turn. “I wished only to ensure that you had some of it,” she said so brightly that he knew she concocted a tale. “People drank it with such gusto that I feared you would be left without a taste at all.”

“And you insisted which cup I should take.” Alexander felt taut with the certainty that he had been the butt of a jest that was not amusing in the least. “What was in the wine, Isabella?”

She fidgeted. “Nothing. Nothing at all, save the wine itself.”

“You are a less adept liar than my wife,” Alexander said with heat. He cast down his napkin and raised his voice. “What was in the wine?”

Isabella granted him a mutinous glance. “You have need of a wife. We cannot trust you to not marry against our wills, as you did with Vivienne and Madeline.”

“Perhaps a woman will take our sides more readily,” Annelise suggested.

“Perhaps you are fortunate that there was not more added to your wine,” Elizabeth said. “For the weight of your authority is onerous indeed, Alexander.”

“Aha!” Alexander roared. “So it was tainted.”

“I told you that naught good would come of this,” Rhys informed Madeline.

“He is hale enough,” that woman said. “Alexander, you make much of little. We wished only to give you a measure of your own treatment in return, and see Eleanor’s safety assured as well.”

“So you see me sedated, you see that my allies are turned against me -” he turned to Eleanor who had the grace to look discomfited “- you lie to me, and you expect me to greet this revelation with good cheer.”

He cast a glance over the hall and found the old midwife grinning at him. She was half-mad, was Jeannie, but her expression told him that she knew something of the matter. He gestured to her. “Jeannie, did you mix a potion last evening?”

“Aye, I did, my lord, the better to ensure that you slumbered deeply. I trust the taste was favorable enough.”

“I never guessed the wine was tainted, if that is your meaning.”

Jeannie nodded with pride and whispered to herself.

“Jeannie, since you know what you mixed, tell me this,” Alexander demanded. The entire company was rapt. “Could a man have lain with a woman, could he have planted his seed within her, after drinking of that potion?”

Jeannie laughed. She slapped her thighs and laughed so hard that none could doubt the answer. “He would have neither the will nor the means, my lord, after that cup’s contents. All of him would slumber, if you understand my import. All of him would be so limp as to be without life.”

Alexander lowered his voice, addressing only to his kin at the high table. He spoke through gritted teeth and there was heat in his words. “But there was blood in my bed. The blood seemingly of a lady’s maidenhead, yet apparently shed by a woman twice widowed.”

Alexander lifted Eleanor’s hand, displaying the cut upon her thumb to the entire table. It confirmed his suspicions that not a one of his siblings was surprised by the sight. “But it was blood from her thumb and I would wager that you all knew it well.”

“Alexander,” Madeline began to protest, but Alexander had no interest in her side of matters.

Intriguingly, Eleanor said nothing in her own defense. She was pale and sat with her hands clenched tightly together, her head bowed.

“You tricked me,” Alexander said to his sisters, his words hot. “So fair enough, you have had your jest. The amusement ends immediately, however.”

“But Alexander...” Vivienne protested.

“You cannot...” Madeline began.

But Alexander had risen to his feet, anger burning hot in his chest. They had lied, they had deceived him, they had seen one of his allies alienated and they had put every soul in Kinfairlie at risk. Alexander Lammergeier did not find humor in the situation.

“Be merry, all of you,” he shouted to the company. “Partake of the hospitality of Kinfairlie, but know that you celebrate no nuptials this day.”

The assembly stared at him in astonishment.

“My wedding was but a jest, contrived by the lady and my sisters, in honor of our evening of misrule. Surely you are all entertained.” Alexander halted, but no one smiled. “So, feast, all of you, eat your fill and savor the tale of my own folly. Father Malachy, I would ask you to strike the entry in your ledger this day, as if no wedding had been performed.”

The priest stood and visibly took a deep breath. He shook his head. “I cannot undo what had been done, my lord. The banns were waived, at your insistence and over my protest, and thus I would counsel you to stand by what you have done. Many a match begins inauspiciously and proceeds well.”

Alexander granted the priest a stony glare, displeased at yet more defiance. “No match of merit is based upon a lie,” he said with resolve. “For affection cannot take root in deceit.”

“I beg your pardon,” Madeline began to protest.

“I have a thought upon that matter,” Vivienne said, both sisters rising to their feet in indignation.

Alexander ignored them both for the priest did not waver in his conviction. “I leave you all to the meat, then, for I have a letter to write to the bishop. When all is said and done, the lady and I will annul our match as if it never had been pledged, upon that you can all rely.”

With that, Alexander left the board, fuming.

He glanced back but once from the foot of the stairs, and saw Eleanor staring fixedly across the hall, her chin high and her shoulders squared. He knew a moment’s doubt then, for he should not have embarrassed her so. It was not seemly.

She had lied to him, though, despite his granting her the chance to surrender the truth. Alexander told himself not to let her beauty or her spirit weaken his resolve. She had participated in the deceit against him, and even given a chance to explain herself, she had persisted in the lie.

He had no need of such an untrustworthy wife, no matter that every soul in his hall thought otherwise.

The sooner he wrote to the bishop, the better.

Chapter Five

“What was in the potion, Jeannie?” Eleanor demanded once Alexander was gone and the hall had descended into pandemonium.

“I have no need to confess my secrets to you,” the old crone said with a cackle.

Eleanor fixed her with a stern eye. “You could be tried for attempting to murder the laird to whom your fealty is sworn,” she said, seeing the ripple of shock that roiled through the company. She stood and walked toward the old midwife, whose bravery faded with every step Eleanor took.

“I did no such deed. Every soul knows that I hold no malice against the laird.”

Eleanor began to count effects on her fingers as every soul in the hall listened attentively. “His pulse was wild last evening, and his skin was flushed.”

“That is not uncommon for a man in his nuptial bed,” jested one stalwart soul, but Eleanor did not spare him so much as a glance.

She continued to count, her gaze fixed on old Jeannie. “He was uncertain of his whereabouts, his thoughts wandered, his pupils were as tiny as the head of a pin.” Eleanor halted beside the midwife, who fidgeted. “His belly heaved this morn with some gusto, after he slept deeply indeed. You and I both know these to be the marks of a poison in a man’s blood.” She leaned closer. “What would we have seen if we had put a drop of his urine in the eye of a cat?”

The harridan started, and stared at Eleanor with fear. “You cannot know what I used. You cannot guess!”

“It was nightshade,” Eleanor said and saw acknowledgement in the old woman’s expression before she turned away.

“You should not reveal my secrets,” Jeannie complained.

“You should not try to kill your laird,” Eleanor snapped and pivoted to face the high table. She cursed herself, for she should have guessed the herb sooner. Only nightshade could affect a man with such haste.

But nightshade could easily kill a man, howsoever hale he might be. Alexander had eaten precious little the night before, far less than any soul might have anticipated. That he had done so because he had escorted her outside, the better to persuade her to stay, was terrifying indeed. His pursuit of her could have led to his demise—and the way his very presence addled her wits had kept her from thinking so clearly as to be of aid to him.

She was a fool indeed!

But she was not the only fool in this matter. Eleanor glared at Isabella. “What folly was in your head that you granted Alexander nightshade?” Every person at the high table started at her tone, save Madeline’s spouse Rhys. He regarded her with wary respect.

“Jeannie said she knew the right potion to mix,” Isabella said, clearly not realizing the potency of this plant.

“And you trust her word, so readily as that?” The entire company watched Eleanor, but she was too angry to care. “Nightshade can kill a man. Merely three berries will kill a child. Three!”

“It makes a man sleep,” Jeannie declared with a shake of her head. “You respect it overmuch.”

“While you do not respect it enough. A man will awaken from a sleep induced by nightshade, but only if the measure is correct. And the difference between a measure to make a man sleep for a night and the measure that will make him slumber for all eternity is slight indeed.” Eleanor shook a finger at Isabella. “You may have meant well, but there was dangerous folly in this. Your brother could have been found dead this morn.”

“I know the measure,” Jeannie insisted.

That the woman could believe herself so certain of what could not be known with certitude only made Eleanor more furious. She turned on the woman with such anger that the harridan cringed.

“You of all souls should know the folly of that declaration! Each plant has its own strength, and the differences must be respected. Every handful of soil will vary in the potency it grants such a plant. And even from year to year, even plants growing in the same place, will vary in their strength due to sun and rain and heat. It is not for nothing that the goddess Atropos was said by the Greeks to use nightshade to cut the thread of life.” Eleanor took a shaking breath. “I was taught that only fools and murderers use nightshade. Which, Jeannie, are you?”

The assembly was silent for a long moment, then erupted in excited chatter. Eleanor did not doubt that they speculated upon the sisters’ ploy, but she held the old healer’s gaze determinedly. The madness seemed to ebb in old Jeannie’s eyes, and was replaced by a kind of cunning.

“You know much of poisons for a lady,” Jeannie said coyly and the hall fell silent. “Perhaps your intent is of greater import than mine.”

Eleanor would not endure any such insinuation, not when it was without cause, not in this place that was already so precious to her. “Hardly that!” she replied. “You mixed the potion that was surrendered to your laird, not I, and it was not mixed at my dictate. I knew nothing of it until now. Solely the intent of those who knew of it is in question, and truly, Jeannie, I suspect that you alone knew the potency of what you concocted.”

The harridan’s eyes narrowed, but Eleanor did not allow her to speak further. She looked again at Alexander’s sisters. Isabella, to her credit, could not hold Eleanor’s gaze. “Though I appreciate that you did not mean harm, harm could easily have come of this. You owe my husband an apology.”

“He is not your husband any longer, not by his own accounting,” Elizabeth noted.

“No letter has been dispatched to the bishop as yet,” Eleanor retorted. “Alexander is my husband until word comes from the bishop, and perhaps even, after that.”

The company gasped, but Eleanor had given them sufficient to consider. She turned to leave the hall, her crimson skirts rustling, chin held high.

“Now I suppose that she will ensure our matches are loathsome ones, simply for spite,” Elizabeth muttered, her words carrying from the high table to Eleanor’s ears.

Eleanor pivoted, letting the silk swirl around her ankles, letting the girl see that her comment was unwelcome. “I am appalled to hear that the laird of this holding, a man who has treated me with uncommon kindness for little reason beyond his own goodness, should be shown such a lack of respect in his own hall.”

“Hear, hear,” declared a villager at a table beside her.

Elizabeth colored but she did not look away from Eleanor. Indeed, she rose to her feet, defiance making her eyes glitter. “Alexander would see us wed against our will, as he did with our two eldest sisters.”

“And where would be the harm in that example?” Eleanor demanded. “Your sisters are wed to men of honor, men with holdings to their names, men who are young and virile and treat their wives with courtesy.”

“But...”

“Tell me the flaw in either of these men,” Eleanor invited and Elizabeth’s defiance slipped.

“Alexander has been fortunate, to be sure...”

“Or perhaps he has an astute eye for character.”

Vivienne lifted a finger to argue. “You cannot protest that Elizabeth does not have a viable concern.”

“I can and I do,” Eleanor replied hotly. “Does your husband beat you? Does he share your favors with his men? Does he leave you undefended? Does he insult you at your own board? Does he ensure that none in his household show you a measure of respect?”

The company murmured at this litany of foul prospects and the sisters exchanged glances of horror. “Of course not!” Vivienne and Madeline declared in unison.

“Then you know little of how poor a marriage can be,” Eleanor said. “Indeed, you will find little sympathy from me in this matter, Elizabeth. How many summers have you seen?”

“Twelve.”

“And yet still you sit at your brother’s board, a maiden well-fed, well-adorned and well-protected.” Eleanor lifted a hand and indicated the next eldest sister, intent upon letting Alexander’s siblings know how indulged they had been. That they did not appreciate his concern, that they disparaged him when he fought to keep the truth of Kinfairlie’s finances from them, infuriated her beyond belief. “As does your elder sister, Isabella. How many summers have you seen, Isabella?”

The tallest sister, she with the glorious red tresses, the fine garb and the affection for Jeannie’s potions, shrugged. “Fourteen.”

“And Annelise?”

This sister was more soft-spoken, a shy maiden with auburn hair unbound over her shoulders. She alone seemed chastised by Eleanor’s anger. “Sixteen, my lady.”

“And yet here you all sit, certain that your fate is yours to command, indeed, certain that you have the right to make demands of your brother. Here you all sit, content in the surety that there will be meat to fill your bellies, fripperies to trim your hems and armed men to guarantee your chastity. I am certain that you think little of how these marvels come to be.”

The sisters exchanged glances, the two eldest nodding in quiet agreement. Eleanor found understanding in the gazes of those two husbands.

But not from Elizabeth. That girl opened her mouth to argue, but Eleanor had lost her patience. “You think yourself poorly served, Elizabeth, that much is clear. I invite you to speculate upon what fate you would have found, had you truly managed to see Alexander dead this morn.” The girl might have spoken but Eleanor was not done. “Indeed, let me tell you what it is to be poorly served. I was wed at twelve summers of age, against my will, to a friend of my father’s who had seen more than sixty summers himself.”

The sisters looked up as one, their eyes wide, but Eleanor continued with heat. “To have called him cruel would have been to overstate his compassion for any creature other than himself. And when I complained of what I endured in his household, my father told me that I was as good as my husband’s chattel.” She straightened and held Elizabeth’s gaze. “He told me, mine own father, that if my husband showed disfavor with me, then I must surely have deserved his rebuke.”

Elizabeth averted her gaze. It was not half of the story, though Eleanor would share no more. She knew the more clever among them would link her earlier questions with her tale of her first spouse, and rightly so. Her first husband Millard had been a cur beyond compare; a charming cur possessed of a cunning cruelty.

The company was silent, staring at Eleanor. She found herself shaking in rage at what she had endured, at the audacity of Alexander’s sisters in expecting more to be their due.

“From where I stand,” she said, “you have no complaint with your brother’s intent, for he has shown greater care than many a man would do in ridding his hall of mouths to feed. Women can be wedded as soon as their courses begin, so give thanks for every month since that day that you have not been compelled to wed a man against your choice, no less an unfitting one.”

Madeline stood then and laid a hand upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. “You go too far in this. Our matches are good ones because we made them so, not because of any care taken on Alexander’s part.”

Eleanor would not even cede this. “Every marriage is wrought of chance, but in choosing men of merit to take your hand, Alexander ensured that Fortune rode in your company. Did I not hear that you had the opportunity yourselves to choose your spouses, an opportunity you both declined to take?” Madeline and Vivienne colored slightly when they nodded. “Grant credit where it is due, all of you. My lord husband has served you well, far better than most men would have done. You should have the wits to recognize as much, no less to appreciate the blessings you have gained.”

With that, Eleanor spun and left the hall, even as she heard them begin to chatter behind her. No sooner had she gained the corridor than she heard a man begin to applaud.

“Hear, hear,” he cried and Eleanor halted in the shadows to listen. She smiled in relief as another joined him, then another and another, then the hall was filled with applause.

She had confessed far more of her own history than she had intended to do, but she was fiercely glad that she had defended Alexander. She had behaved as a good wife should, and for once in all her days, she was glad of it. The duty had not been forced upon her and she was pleased to have done it so well.

All she had to do was persuade Alexander to keep her as his wife.

Yet there was one deed she had to complete before she sought out Alexander. It would not hurt that her errand would allow his temper time to cool, and grant her time to concoct a plan.

The sorry truth was that she had no idea what she might offer this man to convince him to keep her by his side.

* * *

Alexander drummed his fingers upon the table. His letter sat before him, an appeal couched in the most polite terms, the wax seal drying as he watched. He frowned at the missive, disliking that he had had to write it.

At root of his disquietude was not that requesting an annulment a half a day after wedding a woman made him look like an impulsive fool. It was not that Father Malachy had refused to simply eliminate the entry for the wedding from his books, though defiance was never a good sign. It was not even that the red wax was unadorned with the imprint of the seal of Kinfairlie—because Alexander’s signet ring was lost, due to his own foolish trust and his sisters’ potion—that irked him.

It was the memory of Alan Douglas and that man’s determination to provide so-called justice for Eleanor that made Alexander reluctant to dispatch the missive. No matter how the lady had deceived him, no matter how right it was to put her aside, it was impossible to think her deserving of a day in Alan’s courts.

It would take a witless man indeed to believe that Alan did not mean harm to Eleanor. Alan lied to blame Eleanor for his brother’s death and no good could come to Eleanor of that. Was Alexander a fool to care what happened to her, when she had tricked him on a matter of such import? Alexander pushed to his feet and paced the chamber, pausing to look over the rolling sea.

If ever he had desired the counsel of his father and uncle, he desired it more in this moment.

He started at a slight rap on his door, then looked back at the sea. “Enter, Anthony,” he said, knowing that the castellan would delight in enumerating his many failings. He might well agree with Anthony on this day.

“If I am not Anthony, may I still enter?”

Alexander glanced over his shoulder at the familiar feminine voice, and was still surprised to find Eleanor on the threshold. She had opened the door only an increment, and stood with one hand on the latch, as if poised to flee. Her cautious manner made him regret his public display of anger again, though he still did not trust her.

“I did not think to see you again,” he said and turned his back once more.

“I expected as much.” There was no inflection in her voice, no way by which he could guess whether she thought that good or poor.

But she had sought him out. That must be of some import.

“If you have come to tell me that I am a knave beyond compare, then have your say and be done with it. I do not dispute that my manners were poor. You can quickly tell me that I am sour to find no humor in my sister’s jest, then leave me be.”

“They could have killed you with that potion,” she said with heat. “There is nothing amusing about their deed and truly, I would think you witless if you found humor in it.”

He glanced back with surprise at the passion in her tone, and found her eyes flashing.

“I have told them that you are owed an apology,” she said, her manner fierce. “That Jeannie is a fool indeed if she imagines that she can readily assess the potency of a nightshade plant. You had virtually no meat in your belly last night—either a pinch more herb or a mouthful less food would have ensured that you never awakened this day.”

Alexander blinked. It was rare for any soul to defend him. “I did not finish the wine that Isabella brought to me,” he said, for he could think of little else to say.

“And there is the truth of it. That harridan would have seen you dead, had you consumed it all. The worst of it is that she does not even know what she very nearly saw done!”

Eleanor was transformed by her fury, as if the ice in her had suddenly melted away. That her appearance should be so vitalized out of indignation on his account was remarkable indeed.

“And here I thought you came to tell me that my sisters were right, after all.”

Eleanor smiled wryly and entered the room, apparently taking his lack of protest as an invitation. “To their credit, I have oft thought that what was sauce for the gander could be sauce for the goose.”

“I did not try to harm either of my sisters, merely to see them wed and wed happily.”

“But it seems that harm could have been done in both cases, despite your intent otherwise. Perhaps there is not so much difference between the three situations.”

“Perhaps there is.” Alexander held her gaze. “An error served in return does not make other errors come aright.”

“Fair enough, but you cannot blame them for trying to ensure that you wed, as well.”

“I can blame them for failing to understand what is at stake. For my sisters’ matches, there is no more and no less at stake than their happiness and security.”

“You cannot blame them for not knowing what you did not tell them,” she noted and he glanced to her in confusion. “About your barren treasury.”

“No, but that is of less import in the matter of my own marriage than my status as laird. The suzerainty and security of Kinfairlie and those sworn to it must be assured, even if the price is my own happiness.”

Eleanor looked at her slippers.

Alexander took a breath, then said what had to be said. In truth, it was a relief to have some person with whom he could speak bluntly. “You must know that I would not have alienated the Black Douglas clan of my own volition. Had you told me your allegiance last night, I might well have let you depart.”

Eleanor’s lips set as she regarded him, and he felt obliged to qualify his statement. “I would have done so in ignorance of Alan’s intent, to be sure, for I would never willingly endanger a lady. Traditionally, though, we have allied with them and this feat annuls that old agreement. Such a choice should be made deliberately, not by accident, for it could endanger every soul who has sworn fealty to me. The risk of retaliation is not small.”

She dropped her gaze, apparently disappointed in his reply. “You would prefer to ally with them.”

“It was my father’s preference and that of my uncle as well.” Alexander watched her, then decided to continue his blunt speech. “Perhaps you will appreciate their conviction that it was preferable to have a Black Douglas beside you than behind you.”

Eleanor laughed then, as if surprised by his candor, then regarded him with some amusement. “I can indeed understand such a sentiment. They are men who stop at nothing to see their aims achieved.” She arched a brow and sobered. “There is no wickedness beneath them, to be sure.”

He was tempted then, to ask about the kind of marriage she had had with Ewen, to ask what she knew of that man’s death, but she spoke before he could do so.

Later, he would wonder if her choice was deliberate.

“So, you wed your sisters in haste, though by unconventional means, wanting only to ensure their happiness and security. And they resent your choices, though they have found good marriages indeed. Perhaps it is not Fortune who smiled upon them. Perhaps you have a sense for making a good match.” She met his gaze. “Perhaps you saw the truth of these men, despite the circumstances that cast them in poor light.”

“I would not claim such a gift,” Alexander said with a shake of his head.

“I guessed as much,” she said with soft vigor. “Which was why I claimed it for you.”

Alexander looked up to find her eyes gleaming. His heart leapt at the sight of her. “What is this?”

Eleanor smiled in a most captivating way. “I told them that they had no cause for complaint, for much worse marriages could be arranged for them than those you arranged with Rhys and Erik.”

“Except that I did not arrange those matches,” Alexander felt obliged to note. “Both men deceived me and I hunted them both once their truth was revealed. I would have killed them without a qualm had my sisters been injured.”

“So you are protective of those beneath your hand, but still they do not understand the reason you were so anxious to see them wed in haste. Not a one of them knows that Kinfairlie’s coffers are empty, do they?”

“How could I tell them such a thing?”

“How could you keep every burden for yourself?” she demanded with some impatience. “You had to guess that without knowing your reason, they would fear your intent. You had to know that they would disparage you!”

Alexander sighed again, and shoved a hand through his hair. “And if I told them, one might choose a suitor with undue haste, perhaps condemning herself to unhappiness. There are no good choices in this.” His gaze strayed out the window, to the fields that had yielded so little this year, and considered the elements, so seemingly benign this day, that had seen the seed rotted in those fields.

“So they fear you, instead of fearing for Kinfairlie’s prosperity,” Eleanor said, her hand landing upon his arm. “That fear led them to deceive you, which put your own life in peril.”

Alexander shrugged. “I do not doubt that you speak aright. Indeed, I will not argue with any soul who protests that I have done poorly at this responsibility of lairdship.” He thought she might criticize him, so spoke in haste before she could do so. “What of you? Do you despise your father for choosing your spouses for you?”

It was Eleanor’s turn to study her shoes. She frowned slightly and he yearned to ease the furrow from between her brows with a fingertip.

“I did,” she admitted, then looked up. Her gaze was clear. “There were years when I hated him with all my heart and soul, when I could not believe that a man who loved me as I had believed he did could have consigned me to such wretched marriages.”

“You sound as if you have changed your thinking.”

She studied him, now. “In talking with you, I wonder whether I knew all of what confronted him. I wonder what choices he had, if he had fewer such choices that I believed he did. I wonder what was in our coffers and who mustered on our borders.” She smiled and shook her head. “He was my father, the sole parent I knew, and I confess that I believed he had hung both the sun and the moon.” She heaved a sigh and her voice softened. “I wonder if he had responsibilities to weigh against his own desires, if he only had me with which to wager.”

“You never asked him?”

“He was not a man who spoke of such intimate matters,” she said quietly. “As were all who held his confidence.” Eleanor looked out the window in her turn. “And my guardian would tell me nothing of my father’s thoughts, even if he knew them. He would regard that deed as a betrayal, to be sure.”

Alexander frowned at this unlikely morsel. “You have a guardian? But why?”

Eleanor spoke quickly. “I speak of him thus, though his duties are surely fulfilled. I have been wedded twice, after all.”

“But...”

“Look.” She lifted her hand, apparently hiding something in her fist. “I came to give you something.”

Curious, Alexander put out his hand. Eleanor held his gaze as she pushed something cold and hard into his palm, then folded his fingers over the item. Her eyes danced, so pleased was she with her gift, and he felt his mouth fall open in astonishment.

It was his signet ring! Alexander knew as much without opening his fingers. He stared at her, no less amazed when she smiled. Her eyes shone at the surprise she had given him.

“But how did you find it?” Alexander opened his hand and gazed at the ring resting in his palm. “You had it all this time?”

She laughed. “No. I merely guessed where it was, and persuaded its keeper to surrender it to me.” Her fair brow arched. “She was mightily frightened by your anger at the board, so you unwittingly made my task easier.”

Alexander pushed the ring back onto his finger with relief, then shook his head. “But I do not understand. She? Surely you coaxed it from Matthew’s grasp?”

Eleanor shook her head. “He did not return it to you last evening. I remember as much, though you cannot. But he could not surrender it to you today, because he did not hold it any longer.”

“Ceara!” Alexander guessed and Eleanor’s smile flashed again.

She shook a finger at him. “No matter what your sisters say, you would seem to have a talent for matchmaking. Matthew and Ceara pledged their troth last night, though would have kept the matter secret until Ceara’s parents granted their permission.”

“And so he gave her the ring, my ring, to seal their agreement?”

Eleanor laughed, a captivating sound. “You are shocked!”

“It is hardly a trinket to be so used.” Alexander found himself smiling in turn.

“They do not know its value, save that it is a handsome piece.” She lifted his hand and turned the ring so that his insignia caught the light. Her touch was light and her eyes sparkled in the most alluring way. “And they respect the man whose hand it usually graces.” Her smile turned mischievous as she leaned closer, and Alexander was charmed. “She had it hidden beneath her chemise, snared upon a piece of string. I doubt your ring has ever been more tightly cosseted than it was between Ceara’s breasts.”

Alexander laughed. It was uncommon to feel that any soul in this household was allied with him, that his burdens were shared, and he liked this sense well. “Surely they do not think their pledge undone now?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Isabella offered them a silver ring to replace this one. In truth, I think they liked it better, for it fits Ceara’s finger.”

Alexander frowned in suspicion. “Isabella surrenders no trinket so readily as that.” He arched a brow at Eleanor. “I would wager that she had some encouragement in this, perhaps from you.”

Eleanor sobered. “She owes you more than the value of a single silver ring,” she said with that same ferocity she had shown earlier. Alexander’s heart warmed that she was protective of him. To his astonishment, she eased closer and laid her other hand upon his chest. “Her folly could have seen you dead.”

Alexander’s heart skipped at her proximity. He felt himself beguiled once again, and for the moment, at least, he felt no trepidation. Eleanor was nigh against his chest, her lips full and inviting. There was a slight flush upon her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. He felt his pulse quicken at the prospect of another of the lady’s kisses.

“I suspect no soul in this hall would have missed me,” he said, hoping no such thing.

Eleanor’s eyes glittered and he was transfixed by this glimpse of her passion. “You suspect wrongly, Alexander Lammergeier,” she said with resolve. “For I would have missed you.”

To his amazement, Eleanor stretched and touched her lips to his.

* * *

Hers was a rational choice, or so Eleanor told herself. Indeed, she did not know why she had not thought of it sooner.

A marriage could be annulled for two reasons alone: common blood between man and wife, or a failure to consummate the match. She and Alexander shared no blood, so any argument he could make to the bishop would be based solely upon their failure to meet abed.

And that argument could be eliminated quite simply.

She had never seduced a man. Truly, she had never wished to meet either of her husbands abed and had fulfilled her marital debt with some reluctance. Further, had she dared to initiate an embrace with either of those men, she would have felt the back of a hand for her wanton audacity.

Alexander not only coaxed her passion, but did not force her to surrender to him. And neither, it proved, did it trouble him when she showed ardor. She kissed him, cautiously at first. She tasted his surprise, heard his incoherent murmur of pleasure, and knew she had chosen aright.

She closed her mouth over his, mimicking his earlier embrace, and touched her tongue to his lips. Alexander growled and his arm locked around her waist. Eleanor rose to her toes, she framed his face in her hands and pulled him closer. She could feel the slight stubble upon his jaw, could smell his skin, could hear him groan.

Alexander caught her buttocks in his hands and lifted her against him. Eleanor closed her eyes and kissed him again, letting desire claim her fully.

Sex had always been a matter of conquest for Eleanor, the conquest of her body by a hostile assailant. It had been about submission and surrender and the pleasure of a man, even if it came at her expense. She was unused to savoring such intimacy, but Alexander was content to kiss with leisure. To be sure, she could feel the vigor of his response, but he did not rush her, he did not hold her down and take his due.

He invited her to join him in the pursuit of pleasure.

That alone would have been sufficiently tempting, but there was also the thunder of his pulse beneath her fingertips. She could feel his heart pounding against her own, she could feel the pulse leaping in his throat, she could hear him quickly inhale when she kissed him more boldly.

She had power in this transaction, a power she had never known she possessed, a power that she would have to learn to wield. She had no doubt that Alexander would savor her every effort to do so, and the prospect made her smile beneath his kiss.

“What is amiss?” he asked, lifting his lips an increment from hers. He studied her, his eyes brilliantly blue, and her smile broadened.

“Perhaps I should have let you coax my smile with a kiss,” she murmured and he grinned.

“I seem to recall being forbidden to touch you,” he mused. “Perhaps my caress is not so onerous as you feared.”

“Perhaps not,” she said, holding his gaze.

“And now you offer a kiss.”

“I offer far more than a kiss,” she whispered, delighting in the way his eyes darkened. Beneath his ardent gaze, she loosed the tie of her chemise and pulled it out of the garment. Her breasts were revealed, her nipples beading beneath his perusal and the chill of the air.

He raised a hand and cupped her breast in his palm, the silk of her kirtle gathered beneath his hand. He bent then and kissed the peak and Eleanor gasped with pleasure. She arched back and closed her eyes, letting him taste her, letting him grant her pleasure.

She knotted her fingers in his hair, pulling his lips to hers when he lifted his head. They kissed with newfound fervor and Eleanor felt his fingers loosing her braid. Her circlet fell, her veil was cast aside. She felt like the courtesan she had claimed to be, and she did not care.

“I tire of your gallantry, sir,” she murmured into his ear, then kissed that ear so leisurely that he moaned. “Perhaps you merely jest with me. Perhaps you do not desire me at all.”

“Perhaps you are deaf and blind,” he retorted and Eleanor laughed. He caught her up in his arms, then seated her upon the table. He braced his hands upon the wood and looked at her. “I thought you feared men.”

Eleanor smiled, knowing that demon was banished in this man’s presence. “I have feared men in the past.” She untied the laces on the sides of her kirtle, well aware that he watched her avidly. “You would seem to have cured me of that malady.” She removed the laces, then cast the silken garment aside. The chemise she had been lent was sheer indeed, and little of her was hidden by it.

Indeed, Alexander looked and swallowed.

Emboldened by his response, Eleanor removed the last ribbon that bound her hair and shook the long tresses out over her shoulders. He surveyed her, a wonder in his eyes that only emboldened her further. She shed her chemise, then leaned back upon the table, the cold wood against her bare buttocks. She wore only stockings and shoes, and felt a moment’s vulnerability beneath the heat of his gaze.

He smiled then, smiled a smile that lit his eyes, and caught her nape in his hand. “Do not fear,” he whispered and her heart skipped a beat that he had glimpsed her uncertainty. “Your trust is an honor I will fulfill.” She might have smiled, so reassured was she, but Alexander bent his head and kissed her fully.

His seduction was both gentle and demanding, he awaited her assent then left her gasping for more. His fingers caressed her as he trailed kisses down her shoulder, along her collarbone. It was as if he would learn her every curve, her every mole by touch alone. Eleanor had never felt so cherished, had never been so sensuously explored. There was no violence in him and he did not restrain her. Eleanor knew that she could urge him aside with a fingertip and that was intoxicating indeed.

Alexander showed no haste; indeed, he savored her. He captured her nipple with his lips and discovered the best combination of teeth and tongue to tease it to a pert point. He found the ticklish spot behind her knees and caressed her there until her very bones melted. He deduced somehow that a kiss beneath her ear dissolved her every inhibition. He bracketed her waist with his hands, showing that his hands could almost encircle her completely.

“Wrought for each other,” he whispered and Eleanor dared to hope that such a thing was possible.

Eventually, he lifted his head, looking so tousled and mischievous that she knew he had some other feat in store. Eleanor knew she was flushed and disheveled and aroused as she had never been before. She fairly ached to feel his heat inside her.

Alexander granted her a wicked smile, locked his hands around her waist and then his kiss turned intimate indeed. He ducked between her thighs, the heat of his mouth landing upon the most secret place of her. Pleasure soared through Eleanor and she fell back, gasping, upon the table.

Alexander did not cease his caress and truly, she did not want him to do so. He roused a passion she had never guessed she possessed and did so with such ease that she marveled at what she had missed. Her very flesh seemed to be afire; there might have been sparks flying from her fingers; she burned with so fiery a lust that she feared it might consume her.

She moaned his name, and he chuckled, his breath tickling her yet more. Relentless, he coaxed the inferno within her to burn more brightly. She writhed and twisted, she sought some goal she could not name. She moaned and did not care who heard her. There was nothing in all the world save Alexander’s teasing kiss.

Suddenly Eleanor was engulfed with pleasure, the fire bursting with unexpected ferocity. She shouted, she locked her knees around him, she clutched at the table. She had never felt such passion, she had never been shaken to her very core.

She stared at him in awe when the tremors ceased and he grinned, knowing full well what he had done.

“More,” she whispered when she caught her breath. “I desire more.”

Alexander was quick to comply. He was atop her, his chausses undone but otherwise fully garbed. There was a determination in his expression, and a wild light in his eyes that made her heart race anew. She gasped as he entered her, for he was uncommonly large, then gripped his shoulders when he waited for her.

She smiled at him, liking the heat of him well. The strength of him sated her as little else could have done—or so she thought, until his mischievous fingers found that tender place once again. He kissed her throat, that place behind her ear, and Eleanor fairly swooned with the pleasure he conjured. He caressed her even as they moved together in that ancient and intimate dance.

His eyes glittered a fearsome blue, his hair was tangled and damp with perspiration, his attention was wholly fixed upon her. Eleanor felt both potent and captive, free and ensnared. She knew that this was right, that this was how man and wife should meet abed, that this was how pleasure should be shared.

Tears rose to her eyes that he should show her such a wondrous truth. She held him fast, wanting both to made this moment last forever and also to find that spellbinding release again. The heat rose ever higher between them, her heartbeat raced, and Alexander smiled at her. They moved as one, enthralled with each other as they fed their passion, then lightning struck her very marrow.

“Alexander!” she shouted, not caring who heard.

“Eleanor!” he bellowed and buried himself deeply within her. They shuddered together in their mutual release, then fell still. He rolled to his back, keeping her clasped against him and laid back on the table with a moan of satisfaction. Eleanor sprawled atop him, well content, and laid her cheek upon his chest.

She put her fingertips on the pulse in Alexander’s throat as she closed her eyes in exhaustion, smiling at the rhythm of their hearts beating as one.

* * *

Eleanor would kill him.

That much was certain. Should Eleanor seduce him thus every day of his life, Alexander would not have to bear the burden of the Lairdship of Kinfairlie for long. He was shocked that he had claimed her without even disrobing—but she had left him the chance only to unlace his chausses. He knew even as he caught his breath that he would never be able to sit at this table and labor over his accounts again without recalling this moment.

She smiled at him shyly, her flesh so rosy and her hair so tangled that he was tempted to claim her again without delay. He slid a fingertip down the side of her chin and her lashes dropped shyly. “Were you pleased?”

Her smile turned impish. “Could you not guess as much?”

“I suppose I could,” he mused, much taken with the woman who filled his arms.

Whatever else Alexander might have said never made it past his lips. There was a pounding of footsteps on the stairs. Those footfalls crossed the floor outside his chamber and he had the blink of an eye to realize what was going to happen before it did.

“No!” he bellowed, just as the door of his chamber was thrown open. He rolled the lady beneath him, hiding her nudity from curious eyes.

“Alexander, are you well?” Anthony demanded.

“I heard shouting, and feared violence,” Isabella said, even as she tried to peer around the castellan. Alexander braced himself over Eleanor, striving to hide her—and their intimate pose—from those two at the portal.

Anthony swore with uncharacteristic vigor, and pushed the curious maiden back into the corridor. He slammed the door with force and much coughing and harumphing carried through the wooden portal.

“God in heaven, there is no peace in this abode.” Alexander groaned and dropped his forehead to Eleanor’s shoulder. To his relief, the lady began to laugh.

“You have need of a lock.”

“I have a lock upon that portal,” he retorted, then granted her a wicked glance. “Had I known that you intended to seduce me, I would have used it.”

She feigned consideration of this. “Perhaps in future, I should lock the portal when I have such a scheme.”

“Perhaps you should,” he agreed. They smiled at each other, then Alexander left her welcoming heat with reluctance. “You will become chilled.” He shed his tabard and granted it to her. He kindled a larger fire in the brazier, then offered her the basin of water and cloth.

Anthony cleared his throat pointedly from the other side of the wooden portal. “I trust then, my lord, that you will not be dispatching a missive to the bishop?”

Alexander glanced to Eleanor, who held his gaze. They looked as one to the missive he had so recently written, and he realized that he no longer had grounds to request an annulment.

And there were witnesses of that fact.

Eleanor became suddenly intent upon ensuring that her laces were properly tied, her very manner feeding Alexander’s suspicion. She looked guilty, just as his sisters did, when one of their schemes was revealed.

“Tell me that you did not contrive this deed,” he said, his voice husky.

She said nothing, merely knotted a lace more tightly. Her lips set though with a stubbornness he knew well.

He stepped to her side and caught her elbow in his hand, compelling her to meet his gaze. “Did you seduce me to ensure there could be no annulment?”

“I do not have to answer you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said with heat. “I will have an answer, and I will have honesty between us, or we will have no match. If you cannot tell me the truth, I will find some way to put you aside, upon that you can rely.”

Her eyes flashed and she lifted her chin, holding his regard boldly. “I would be wedded to you, Alexander Lammergeier. I choose to have you as my spouse and so, yes, I did decide to ensure that our match was consummated. I did decide to ensure that you had no grounds for annulment.”

“I can still put you aside.”

Her lips tightened. “It will not be so readily done.”

“Did you ensure that there would be witnesses?”

Her cheeks flamed at the very notion. “No!”

Alexander believed her, in that at least. He paced the width of the chamber and shoved a hand through his hair, not liking the truth she surrendered. He stared at her from across the room. “Why?”

She grit her teeth, then regarded him warily. “Because you are not like the men I have known. Because I would seize the opportunity to be wed to a man who would treat me with dignity.”

If she had pled for passion, if she had confessed love for him, it might have been easier to give her impulse credence. But Alexander studied the defiant woman before him and knew that she knew little of passion and love, that even dignity was a novelty for her.

And that made the choice for him. His heart wrenched that she had been treated so poorly and though he knew that he could teach her to expect better, he also knew the course would not be easy. He heaved a sigh.

“Truth,” he insisted gently. “We must have truth between us.”

She took a breath and nodded agreement. “You shall have all the truth from me that you desire, Alexander Lammergeier. I would ask you not to blame me if you do not like its taste upon your tongue, however.”

Their gazes locked and held across the span of the chamber. “Fair enough,” he said, hearing a wealth of history in her words. He lifted the missive from the table and cast it into the flames of the brazier. He watched her shudder in her relief, saw the shimmer of her unshed tears.

“I thank you,” she said quietly and he was humbled by her beauty and her pride.

Eleanor would never beg for any morsel from his table, though she had no qualms in telling him that he was wrong. He respected her wits and her knowledge. Her counsel would be invaluable to him, to be sure.

He could teach her, in turn, that a lady was owed more from her spouse than her former husbands had offered to her.

Alexander smiled at Eleanor, liking the sight of his mother’s ring upon her finger, liking that his heart had leapt when first he had glimpsed her. He took her hand within his and kissed her knuckles, and when she flushed, he dared to be encouraged that her wounds would heal.

Then Alexander raised his voice, not looking away from his bride. “You have guessed aright, Anthony. There will be no annulment, and Kinfairlie has a new lady on this day.”

“Hoorah!” Isabella cried from the other side of the door. Eleanor and Alexander shared a smile when that maiden clapped her hands. “I will tell the others!” Isabella’s feet could be heard scampering away, then the older man cleared his throat.

“Very good, my lord.” Anthony lowered his voice. “Might I anticipate that you will be occupied this afternoon, my lord?”

“You might indeed,” Alexander said with a smile. “As you well know, it is imperative that I thoroughly review my accounts before year end. There are assets at Kinfairlie for which I do not as yet have a full inventory.” He caught Eleanor in his arms and she began to smile, both of them forgetting Anthony’s presence until that man cleared his throat.

“Very good, my lord.”

“Lock that portal,” Eleanor whispered when they reached the bed and Alexander was only too glad to comply. That he surrendered the key to his lady wife with a flourish earned him a smile, one that warmed him to his very toes.

Chapter Six

The sky was darkening when Eleanor awakened in the great bed in Kinfairlie’s solar. She was confused for a moment, finding herself in an unfamiliar bed, wearing nothing but a ring that was a new weight upon her hand. Alexander dozed beside her, his hair tousled and a smile upon his lips. She indulged her impulse and pushed the thickness of his hair back from his brow, only to have his eyes open.

“It must have been the King of Jerusalem himself,” he said, his eyes glinted.

Eleanor smiled. He had begun a jest this afternoon of trying to guess who her first husband had been, though his suggestions had been whimsical from the outset. Had there ever been a man so determined to make her smile?

There had, she knew, never been one so successful in that quest.

“Of course not,” she said, feigning a stern manner. “There is no King of Jerusalem in these days.”

“Since when? No one told me of this travesty.” Alexander bent and kissed one of her nipples with diligence, as if the answer to political matters could be found upon her breast.

Eleanor laughed, then caught her breath as his tongue began to move against her flesh. The man could seduce a statue, it was clear. “It has been centuries since Saladin conquered Jerusalem.”

“Truly?” Alexander slipped his fingers between her thighs, showing no great interest in the history of the Latin Kingdoms. “Someone should have told me.”

“I have no doubt that you did not heed your tutor overly well.”

Alexander chuckled. “True enough.” Eleanor gasped when he conjured her passion anew, and did so readily. “Then perhaps your husband was the great poet, Taliesin,” he mused, as if he was not awakening a fire beneath her flesh.

“Dead many a century,” Eleanor gasped.

“The knight Lancelot.”

“He was enamored of Guinevere.”

“Though the name of any wife he might have claimed is not recorded. And truly, would it not set a woman against men to be wed to a knight who so ardently courted another man’s wife?”

“I trust you will not do as much.”

“I intend to court only my own wife,” he said, granting her a simmering glance.

“She is soundly seduced, to be sure.”

Alexander grinned and stretched out beside her. His fingers still moved against her heat, making her squirm against him. He laced the fingers of his free hand with hers and held her hands over her head.

Such a pose struck terror into Eleanor’s heart, but she fought against her instinctive desire to pull away. Alexander’s grip was loose, his manner was easy; indeed, he smiled at her. She struggled to control her breathing, to hide the fear that had seized her.

He watched her and she wondered what he saw, for he freed her hands without comment. His fingertips danced over the length of her, launching an army of delightful shivers in their wake, and when she smiled, his eyes began to dance anew.

That his pleasure came from granting her pleasure was a new notion to Eleanor, but one she liked well enough. She liked too that he granted her time to become accustomed to him.

“But my lady’s heart is more elusive than her satisfaction abed,” he said softly.

Eleanor caught her breath. “Her heart?”

He arched a brow. “What manner of knave would not seek his wife’s undying love?”

“Love?” Eleanor eased away from his caress. “Love has no place in a marriage,” she said with resolve and his eyes narrowed.

“Do you intend to seek it outside of marriage, then?”

“No, no! But love is beyond expectation, indeed, beyond the desire of sensible men and women.”

She rose from the bed then, and hastily donned her chemise. Alexander remained abed, remained nude, his eyes gleaming like those of a cat on the hunt.

Eleanor straightened, feeling somewhat defended from him with the sheer linen between them. “After all, pleasure and respect should suffice,” she said with a smile.

Alexander was clearly unpersuaded by this notion. “Your husbands could not have been of much merit, if either of them persuaded you of such a notion.”

“It was my father who taught me thus.”

Alexander held her gaze and she knew she had found another matter about which he felt strongly. His eyes were a vibrant blue and he remained motionless. She felt the force of his will turned upon her, and knew he would not be readily convinced to change his thinking.

“It was my father who taught me that love wrought a good marriage,” he said, his voice silky.

Eleanor pivoted and reached for her kirtle.

“Where do you go?”

“You must be hungry. I will fetch a repast from the kitchen.”

“You need not do as much. Anthony can be summoned.”

“I need also to visit the latrine,” she lied. Alexander’s gaze flicked to the bucket left for that purpose, but he said nothing further.

He rolled from the bed with feline grace, then came to her side. “I would suggest that you see yourself garbed properly before you show yourself in the hall,” he teased, flicking a fingertip at her sides. She had fed the lace so quickly that the eyelets were not aligned and the sides of the kirtle were bunched.

Eleanor flushed, for she was never so clumsy, but Alexander smiled as he loosed the lace. He bent and touched his lips to her temple, whispering there. “It is not all bad that the prospect of abandoning your husband leaves you so discomfited.”

“It is not that!”

“Is it not?” He watched her, seeing too much for Eleanor’s taste.

She turned her back upon him, feeling discomfited indeed. She combed her hair and donned her veil, but felt no more in command of the erratic pace of her heart than she had while nude. She was too aware of Alexander’s strong fingers as he fastened her laces with leisure, too aware of the heat of him close by her side, too aware of the pleasure he could conjure with a touch. She had dared not forget how little she knew of him as yet, dared not forget that any man could show charm for days or weeks.

Millard had been charming for the better part of a year, after all. She caught her breath when Alexander caught her waist in his hands and closed her eyes against his unholy allure.

“I expect more from marriage, Eleanor,” he whispered to her. “You may have learned to expect less, but I expect more. I will win your heart, however reluctant it might be.”

Eleanor swallowed, fearing that he might well succeed. And what of her then? How impotent would she be once this man held her own heart in his hands?

She could not help but raise her gaze, for she felt the full weight of his attention, though she was unprepared for the bright blue of his eyes. She stared at him wordlessly, both terrified and exhilarated by what he promised, then he suddenly grinned and snapped his fingers.

“Prester John! That must have been your spouse, for he would have granted you a taste for foreign textiles.”

“He does not even exist!” Eleanor protested with an unwilling smile.

Alexander wagged a finger at her, his manner conspiratorial. “So they say, but it is all an elaborate ruse, to be sure.” He sidled close to her and dropped his voice. “Tell me, did he surrender to you any secrets for the making of spare coin? I have heard that he could turn dross to gold and it must be said that I have an abundance of dross.”

Though he was teasing, Eleanor knew she could be of aid in this matter.

“Charge higher tariffs upon goods coming and going,” she said crisply, her manner in such sharp contrast to his that Alexander blinked. “And higher fees for the justice in your legal courts. People have no quibble paying for advantage. Host a fair, albeit one at a princely tariff to you for allowing use of the land. Charge also for the use of the bridges and roads within your demesne, as well as the right to land at your port, if you have one. Command a tax upon indulgences, from silk to ale to silver, for the rich who can afford such goods can similarly afford a few pennies for the laird’s coffers.”

Alexander regarded her in astonishment. “How do you know about such matters?”

“My father taught me to read and to write and to tally, the better to ensure that I would never be cheated.” Eleanor straightened. “I kept the books of his household until I was wedded the first time.”

“He did not do this himself?”

“He traveled much.”

Alexander blinked. “But surely he had clerks?”

“He had me, and I sufficed.” She met his gaze, daring him to challenge her upon this matter, but Alexander only frowned. He looked as if he would ask another question, but Eleanor pivoted. “I had best go, before the cook leaves the kitchen.”

“Indeed,” Alexander said, his voice thoughtful. He donned his chausses, sparing more than one piercing look in her direction. He was too thoughtful, his gaze too assessing, and Eleanor was glad to step out of his chamber before he unfurled all of her secrets.

There was no doubt about it, Alexander saw too much. That he was determined to win her heart made her quicken her pace as she ran down the stairs. There was no chance of her ever loving her husband, no matter how handsome and charming he might be. Eleanor had sworn a pledge to that effect years before and she would not permit a mere day in the company of Alexander Lammergeier to change her thinking.

She had best muster her defenses, that he not discern too many of her secrets. And she had best made herself of use, for she already wished desperately to remain in Kinfairlie and she had nothing else beyond her own merit to offer its persuasive lord.

What better time than this moment to organize her lord’s hall and ensure its efficiency? She would dispatch a meal to Alexander and hope that he fell asleep before she returned to his chamber. He could have no complaint in her performing her duties, especially as they had met abed several times this day already.

Perfect.

* * *

For the duration of the evening, Isabella had sat with her sisters, embroidering a hanging for the hall that Annelise had designed, impatient to see her mission done. How long could Alexander and Eleanor spend locked in the solar? Isabella had looked around far more than her sisters, far more than those who lingered to drink and chat in the hall.

Finally, Isabella saw Eleanor step into the hall. It was the moment she had awaited and she twitched with impatience for Eleanor to go to wherever she was destined to go.

She knew that she alone spied her new sister-in-law.

Indeed, Eleanor clung to the shadows, as if she wished to avoid notice. And why not—Eleanor’s shoes did not match and her cheeks were flushed. She had the look of a woman whose chemise was on backwards. Isabella smiled, guessing that her brother was responsible for ruffling this woman who had appeared so unlikely to be ruffled.

Alexander had no small measure of charm, after all.

Isabella watched Eleanor covertly. As soon as Eleanor ascertained that she had not been noticed, she made for the kitchens and disappeared in the shadows of that corridor.

Of course, the new couple would both be hungry, for they had missed the evening meal. But because of his absence from the hall, there was a detail Alexander did not know about his new wife. Isabella knew that she was the one to surrender it to him, for she owed him more than one favor.

Here was her chance!

Isabella carefully slipped her needle into the tapestry and gave an elaborate yawn. “Oh, I am tired beyond belief,” she said, sparing a smile for her sisters. “I think I must go to bed.”

“You simply wish to cease embroidering,” Elizabeth charged.

“I am tired because you snored all of last night,” Isabella retorted.

“I did not!” Elizabeth said.

“You dreamed deeply, Elizabeth, for even a nudge of my foot did not silence you,” Isabella said with a shake of her finger, then yawned again. “You know I have need of my sleep.”

“I doubt it was a gentle nudge,” Vivienne said with a smile.

Elizabeth’s expression turned mutinous. “You are lazy, that is all.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Annelise chided softly. “Isabella has done twice the work of you.”

“It is not my fault that she is quick with a needle and I am not,” Elizabeth grumbled.

“But it is your fault that you are uncommonly sour of disposition of late,” Madeline commented. “What ails you, Elizabeth?”

“Nothing.” The youngest sister shut her mouth with resolve and bent over her work. The other sisters exchanged glances of concern, but Elizabeth ignored them with vigor.

Isabella left the group, more intent upon her mission than Elizabeth’s moods. She raced up the stairs as soon as she was out of sight of the hall, and climbed to the floor that was Alexander’s own. She rapped upon his door, encouraged by the line of light showing beneath the portal. “Alexander?”

“Enter, Isabella.”

“Are you decent?”

Alexander laughed, an echo of his old self. “I am garbed, if that is what you mean.”

Isabella pushed open the portal, and halted at the sight of her brother bent over his books. He was disheveled, to be sure, and his chemise was only partly laced, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the fading tan on his forearms. He leaned his weight upon his fists and surveyed his books with an uncommon avidity. He looked vital, as he had not in months. Isabella realized only in that moment how old and tired Alexander had looked in this past year, that he had been but a shadow of his former self.

A pang struck her as she realized the truth that Eleanor had uttered about Alexander’s burden, a truth to which they had all been blind.

“Are you truly my brother?” she asked, her tone cajoling. “For I know that he does not show any such fascination with his ledgers.”

Alexander grinned, the image of his old roguish self. “Eleanor granted me an idea, several ideas in fact.” He laid aside his quill with undisguised satisfaction. “They are good notions, to be sure. Whatever your intent, you have found me a treasure of a wife.” He then smiled at her with affection. “And are you truly my sister, Isabella? It is too early for her to consider retiring, for she is always the last to leave a celebration of any kind. Do not tell me that every soul is gone to bed so early on Christmas night?”

“Of course not.” Isabella crossed the threshold, her hands knotted together. “Eleanor was right. I owe you an apology, Alexander. I never guessed the potency of what Jeannie mixed and I never asked what she did. I should have taken more care.” The fear that she had felt when Eleanor told of the herb welled up within her now and her voice rose. “I never meant harm to you. You must believe me!”

Alexander immediately crossed the floor and embraced her. “I know, Isabella. There is no malice within you.”

“But something dire could have happened!”

“But it did not, and so the matter rests.”

“But you...”

“Are more hale than expected, it is clear.” He held her shoulders and gave her a stern look, much as their father would have done. She knew he would hear no more of it. “Now, I understand that you surrendered your silver ring to Ceara.”

Isabella fidgeted. “It seemed the least I might do to make amends.”

“It was kind of you and I regret that I have no ring with which to replace it.”

She touched his signet ring. “Except the one that I replaced.”

Alexander shook his head. “I mean to keep it on my hand from this day forward.”

“A good thing that is, for I do not have another silver ring.” They shared a smile and she touched his hand again. “It was kind of you, Alexander, to ensure that the two had the chance to speak.”

“Ah well, I tired of Matthew sighing at the sky whenever I went past the mill,” he said with a wink. “As did his father, to be sure. That pair only needed a nudge to set them on their course.”

Characteristically, Alexander took little credit for what he had done, though he saw it as his obligation to do it.

Isabella looked down at the floor, uncertain how to begin. “I wanted you to know that Eleanor defended you boldly, just as a lady should defend her spouse, and that I regret that I never saw your side of matters.”

“Did she?” Alexander regarded her with interest.

“I did not realize how fortunate we are to be so at ease at Kinfairlie, not until she told of her own fate.”

His gaze sharpened. “And what was that?”

“She was wedded at twelve, against her will, to a man who had seen more than sixty summers!” Isabella could not contain her horror. “And he was cruel to her, of this I am certain.”

“And wed thence to Ewen Douglas,” Alexander mused. Isabella could not keep herself from grimacing. “No wonder she expects so little of men and marriage.”

“She must think you too good to be true,” Isabella teased, though her brother seemed to find the suggestion sobering.

“Possibly so.” Alexander crossed the chamber, clearly thinking, and Isabella was loathe to interrupt him. He pivoted suddenly and fixed his gaze upon her, then smiled. “I would ask a favor of you, Isabella.”

“Anything!”

“Do not be quick to make a pledge without knowing what you promise,” he chided, just as their father had done. Isabella had always been too impetuous with a promise, so their father had always said.

“What then?”

“What I ask of you is simple: I would ask you to tell me if there is a man who claims your heart. Or even if there is one you yearn to meet, then tell me of it, and I shall see it done.”

She caught her breath. “Will you see me wed against my will?”

He regarded her, solemnity in his gaze. “You cannot remain at Kinfairlie forever,” he said gently. “Nor should you desire to do so. Choose a spouse or I shall be compelled to choose one for you. It is my duty as your guardian.”

Isabella nodded, understanding the fullness of what he told her. “Is there a date by which you would wish me to choose?”

Alexander spared a fleeting glance to his ledgers, a concerned glance that made Isabella’s blood chill. “Of course not,” he said with that easy confidence she knew so well. Once such a tone from Alexander had disguised a jest. Now she did not know what to make of it. He winked at her. “But know that you are young and lovely and men are more readily enamored of youthful virgins.”

Isabella propped her hand on her hip, her ire rising in defense of her new sister-in-law. “Oh, does that mean that you will not love Eleanor, simply because she was wedded before and thus no longer virginal?”

“No!” Alexander’s smile broadened and he shook his head. “No, I do not anticipate such a dire fate as that.” His old humor made his eyes sparkle.

“You did not come to the hall this afternoon,” she ventured.

“No, we did not.” Alexander held her gaze unflinchingly.

Isabella, who had a fearsome curiosity about intimate matters, dared to ask, though her cheeks burned with her audacity. “I did not quite see what you did this morning and I was wondering what exactly...”

“And you should not have seen as much as you did.” He tut-tutted in mock disapproval, which would have reminded her more of Anthony if his eyes had not shone with such mischief. “A maidenly gaze should not fall upon some sights, Isabella Lammergeier.”

“But I am curious!”

“And your curiosity will be sated on your wedding night, as is right and good. Is that not sufficient incentive to choose a spouse?”

“You turn every detail to your objective!” Isabella said with a laugh, then they smiled at each other in understanding.

Anthony rapped on the portal then pushed it open, halting on the threshold in surprise. He held a heavily-burdened tray and his features were alight with something that might have been called joy on another face. Alexander and Isabella both fell silent.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I believed you to be alone.”

“Even you can err on occasion, Anthony,” Alexander said and Isabella found herself smiling. Her brother winked at her, then held the door. The castellan crossed the chamber and fussed with laying out the meal, his manner indicating that he would not leave shortly.

He must have something to tell Alexander. Isabella excused herself and hastened to the chamber that the sisters shared, smiling all the while. Whatever complaints Alexander had had about his nuptials would seem to have been addressed, and his happiness ensured with Eleanor.

All Isabella had to do was consider all the men she had known, then decide which of them she wished to know better. Alexander spoke aright in one matter—there was a sole way to sate her curiosity about what happened abed between man and wife. Eleanor’s comments persuaded Isabella that it was time for her to know the truth.

* * *

That old harridan Jeannie was lurking in the kitchens, muttering aspersions, her very presence driving Eleanor to do more and more. She had not intended to remain so long, but Jeannie’s comments pricked at Eleanor.

When Eleanor insisted that the last of the wine be saved for Alexander, Jeannie had cackled. “She means to have it for herself, just you wait and see.” The crone had made this accusation in an undertone which had carried to every ear.

When Eleanor discussed the replacement of the strewing herbs in the hall with the maids, Jeannie had muttered. “She means to ensure that I have no plants at my disposal, but she does not know the location of half of them.”

When Eleanor suggested various sauces for the venison, as the cook was clearly tired of endeavoring to fashion something new from the same ingredients, Jeannie had snorted. “She will command your every gesture, just wait. We have found a harsher mistress than ever we had in a laird.”

Those in the kitchens became increasingly awkward, though Eleanor chose to ignore the older woman. She knew from her own experience that it was her public challenge that irked Jeannie. She had questioned Jeannie’s abilities—and rightly so, in her estimation—before the entire company. That could only lead to fewer souls at Jeannie’s door begging her aid.

Fewer souls pressing coin into Jeannie’s gnarled hands.

Eleanor’s suspicions were proved when she reviewed the inventory with the cook. “Mind she does not meddle with your stores!” Jeannie cried. “It is treacherous indeed that we have one so acquainted with poisons in our laird’s own bed. Will any soul who is fool enough to defy her find himself dead?”

“You should not tolerate her nonsense,” the cook said gruffly.

“She is vexed and it is better that she speak of such vexation than act upon it,” Eleanor said.

“Do you mean to share your counsel at Kinfairlie?” the burly cook asked.

Eleanor nodded. “Such knowledge is better shared than veiled in secrecy. This is what I was taught. I will aid whosoever asks me for assistance.”

“And this is what Jeannie fears,” the cook said. “Few will go to her door now that you have questioned her abilities; fewer still if you provide the same counsel without threat or mystery.”

Eleanor granted him a sharp glance. “I was right to question the intent of any soul whose deeds threatened my husband’s life.”

The cook nodded as he fidgeted with the keys to the stores. “True enough, my lady, but I would not have old Jeannie casting her venom at my back, not for any price.”

He showed her how the inventory was stored then, carefully locked the portals behind them. Eleanor was pleased to note that a number of effective herbs were kept in the keep proper, as well as a measure of spice. Once they were done, the cook offered Eleanor the keys. “These would be yours to govern now, my lady.”

Eleanor accepted the ring of keys, welcoming their weight in her hands. She was Lady of Kinfairlie in truth, her administration over its household assured by her husband as was right and good. She smiled at the cook, unable to hide her pleasure.

“I hope you will be happy at Kinfairlie,” he said.

“I hope as much as well,” Eleanor replied, then shook her head. “Though it has seemed thus far to be a place too good to exist in truth.”

“Oh, we have our share of warts in this burg!” he said with a laugh, then coaxed her back into the kitchens. Jeannie, mercifully had made herself absent, and Anthony was making the final preparations for the tray he intended to deliver to Alexander.

Eleanor hastened to the castellan’s side, ensuring that there was sufficient cheese and meat, then sniffed the wine. “It has faltered since last night. Were there not a dozen cloves in the inventory? I would see its taste improved for my lord with one or two of them.”

And so it was done, Eleanor taking the wine herself into the storeroom to add spices. She even mulled the wine slightly, thinking only of Alexander’s pleasure, and savored how Anthony sniffed appreciatively of its aroma when he lifted the tray.

She would show herself useful to her spouse, to be sure.

* * *

Alexander wondered what mission kept his wife from his chamber. He had hoped that Eleanor would return with the repast, that they would share it, perhaps abed, and that he might unfurl more of her secrets. Instead, Anthony fussed over the wick of a lantern, clearly intent upon remaining in the solar.

Alexander, for his part, sat again before his ledgers, considering the merit of Eleanor’s suggestions. It was true that he charged many of the fees she noted, but they had not been increased since his father had laid claim to Kinfairlie’s seal. If he added a half a penny to each of these fines charged by his court, for example, the sums worked much better. He did not wish to burden his people overmuch but perhaps there was truth in her assertion that people would willingly pay for what they perceived to be advantages.

And he liked the notion of a fair very much. It could only be good to bring merchants from afar to trade upon his lands, to leave pennies in his coffers that did not come from the hands of his own tenants. He would have to ask Eleanor for more detail of how such matters were arranged.

Anthony cleared his throat and Alexander glanced up to find his castellan beaming. That man held a lantern filled with oil and, at Alexander’s nod, replaced the one before Alexander which was nigh empty. Anthony made a fuss about trimming the wick, as he never did, so that Alexander knew the older man had something to say.

“And what troubles you this evening, Anthony?”

“Nothing, sir, nothing at all.” The older man smiled primly. “It is simply that I must congratulate you, my lord, upon your excellent choice of a wife.”

“I thank you, Anthony, for your felicitations.”

Anthony straightened, sparing a glance for the tray he had laid aside. He shook his head, as if marveling, and against all expectation, his smile broadened. “I never thought to have to ask you this, my lord, but might you put your ledgers aside, the better that I could lay out your repast?”

“Surely my lady intends to return and do as much?”

“I am not certain, my lord. She is quite busy in the kitchens.”

“But the meal has been summoned. There is bread and cheese and cold meat here to suffice for any man, and certainly more than ample servings for the lady and myself.”

Anthony’s eyes seemed to twinkle. “Ah, but the lady seeks to bring Kinfairlie beneath her administrating hand, which is clearly a competent one.”

“Truly?” Alexander was intrigued by this.

“Truly,” Anthony said with satisfaction. “With a dozen kind but firmly uttered words, she has the cook contriving a new sauce for the venison, and he had been complaining just before her arrival that venison was a waste of his considerable talents. She has mustered the maids to begin a thorough removal of the strewing herbs, giving instruction this night for the task to be completed in the morning. The ostlers were yet savoring their holiday measure of ale in the hall, and she amiably persuaded them to muck your stables on the morrow to such cleanliness that one will be able to eat from the very floor.”

“Mercifully, we do not have to do so, as we have tables,” Alexander muttered but his castellan did not laugh.

“The lady has a gift for lighting a fire beneath those who would do as little as possible, to be sure,” Anthony asserted. “Further, the meals are planned for the remainder of the holiday season. Should you or your guests choose to hunt, my lord, there is a list in the kitchens of what could be added to any given meal, depending upon your success.”

“That is well done.” Alexander deliberately closed one of the books of accounts and stacked it in his trunk with such apparent concentration that he hoped the older man would leave him alone.

Anthony did no such thing. “And—though surely I need not convince you of the lady’s charms!—she has retrieved your ring, against all expectation.”

Alexander found his castellan shaking a finger at him, that man’s manner as admonishing as that of an affectionate grandfather. Alexander blinked, but the newly garrulous Anthony shook his head benignly.

“A man should be mindful of his treasures, my lord, that is what I have always been taught. You were careless, if I may say so, and have been fortunate indeed in having your ring returned. What a woman of resource you have wed!”

Anthony smiled broadly, a sight so rare that Alexander could not believe this was the grumpy castellan he knew so well.

“And further,” Anthony continued, “in a mere day, the lady has convinced you to willingly spend time at your accounting. I, as you well know, have spent a year endeavoring to achieve the same ends, my lord, and can only salute the lady’s persuasive abilities.” The older man winked most unexpectedly. “Of course, if you do not mind me saying as much, a lady has other weapons in her arsenal against her spouse than I could ever hope to wield.”

Alexander blinked. “Did you make a jest, Anthony?”

That man waggled his silver brows and winked again. “I confess, my lord, that I have not your experience with such matters, but I did indeed make an attempt at humor.”

“Then the lady has wrought a considerable change in this hall, to be sure.”

Anthony laughed, and Alexander was certain he had never heard the older man do as much. “She is a marvel, of that there can be no doubt. Would you care for wine, sir?”

Alexander shook his head in revulsion at the very prospect. “I have no taste for it, not after last evening.”

Anthony frowned. “But it is the last measure from the cask, my lord. My lady insisted that it be saved for you, as is right and proper.”

“Then it will be wasted, for I cannot so much as think of drinking of it.”

The older man pursed his lips and considered the pitcher. “But the lady Eleanor troubled herself mightily with seeing it spiced for your taste, my lord. I would not have you insult her efforts, however inadvertently.”

“Then I shall pour it from the window and complement her upon it. I cannot drink it, Anthony. My innards roil at the very prospect.”

“Sir! To spill it would be a waste of considerable expense.” Anthony looked alarmed, but Alexander shrugged. “I did not bring ale, my lord, upon my lady’s instruction, but I would willingly return to the kitchens and...”

“There is no need, Anthony.” Alexander claimed a piece of bread and yawned mightily. “In this moment, I am so tired as to have little appetite at all.”

“That is a shame, my lord.” Anthony frowned at the pitcher of wine in his concern, clearly vexed.

“Did you try the wine last evening, Anthony?” Alexander asked on impulse. “It is a most excellent vintage and has kept beyond expectation.”

“You know, sir, that I never indulge my taste for wine.”

“It is Christmas, Anthony,” Alexander said kindly. “I insist that you lay claim to this pitcher and savor its contents for yourself.”

“Sir! I could not so forget my obligations. I pride myself upon ensuring that no foible troubles you, my lord, and...”

“By your own admission, Anthony, my lady has the administration of Kinfairlie well in hand. You might allow yourself one night of respite.”

The older man considered the wine, a yearning in his eyes. “I once had quite the taste for a fine wine,” he said.

“Then go, I insist upon it. No one will be the wiser that you savored this delight instead of myself. You might be so kind as to advise me in the morning as to its flavor, the better that I might compliment my wife.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Leave the meal as it stands, Anthony. I shall either eat alone or await my lady’s company. You need not trouble yourself further with me this night.” Alexander stood and yawned again. “Indeed, I may be asleep before long.”

Anthony wagged a finger at him. “And rightly so. I entreat you to recall, sir, that you must preserve your strength for your accounts.”

Alexander laughed at that, thinking that he could grow accustomed to his newly amiable castellan.

The older man departed with the wine as if it were a trophy, and though Alexander ate a measure of the food, he did not linger long at the table. His lady did not come, and though he could not imagine what occupied so much of her time, he did not doubt that she mustered his resources in ways he had not thought possible.

He yawned again, unable to fight the exhaustion that claimed him, and returned to bed.

Still Eleanor did not come, and the quietude of the keep began to lull Alexander to sleep. A single day in Eleanor’s presence and he knew that he made great progress in dispatching the lady’s fears. She might not have confided fully in him as yet, but she had defended him in his hall, retrieved his signet ring and ensured that their marriage could not be annulled.

On the verge of sleep, Alexander smiled. His new bride liked him, he knew it well, whether she admitted as much or not. He would win her heart before spring burst upon Kinfairlie, that was beyond doubt.

* * *

Eleanor yawned in her turn as she climbed the stairs to the solar. It had taken some time, but she was confident that all in Kinfairlie would be more perfect on the morrow. Alexander would see her merit soon, and even if she dared not love him, he would surely perceive that she was not worthy of being put aside. She would perform every deed to perfection, so that he could find no fault with her, and perhaps he might even come to care for her.

And she would give him a son within the year, which would guarantee both his affection and a full treasury for Kinfairlie. She liked this abode well, liked its people as well as its laird.

She paused on the threshold outside the chamber shared by Alexander’s sisters and smiled at the sound of their slumber. Their maid clucked over them, her shadow visible even in the darkness as she muttered to this one and that, tucking them in and keeping a vigilant eye upon the portal. Eleanor might have frightened them with her own tale, but she was as determined as Alexander to see his sisters wed happily. With some effort, it could be done.

She yawned again and began the next course of stairs, though she never reached the summit. Feet pounded behind her and she turned to find the cook’s wife racing toward her. Rose was red in the face, her eyes wide with alarm.

“What is amiss?” Eleanor asked. Vera, the girls’ maid came out onto the landing, her kind face showing concern even as she pulled the portal closed behind her.

“It is Anthony! He came into the kitchen, complaining that his heart raced like a wild thing, then he fell upon the floor.”

“God in heaven!” Eleanor picked up her skirts and hastened back down stairs. To her astonishment, the cook’s wife put a hand upon her arm to halt her.

“I mean you no disservice, my lady, but there are those who would not have you summoned.”

“What is this?”

“There were those who said that you knew too much of poison, and that Anthony looked to be poisoned.”

“But why would I poison Kinfairlie’s castellan?” Eleanor pushed aside the notion with impatience. “The man has been good to me, and I rely upon his counsel.” She hastened down the steps, not waiting for the cook’s wife to lead the way.

“But all know that Anthony drank the wine that you prepared for your lord husband,” Rose said, her voice carrying with clarity.

Eleanor spun to face her and saw the condemnation in the woman’s eyes. Vera stepped back, fear in her expression.

Rose lifted her chin, bracing herself for her own audacity. “Is it not whispered, my lady, that you are overfond of burying husbands? What scheme have you for our laird Alexander?”

“None!” Eleanor replied. “What scheme have you to keep a healer from Anthony’s side?” With that, she fled down the steps to be of what aid she could. She only hoped it was not too late.

* * *

Alexander awakened early the following morning, feeling refreshed and invigorated. To his astonishment, there was no sign that Eleanor had ever come to bed. He washed and dressed with haste, surprised that Anthony had not yet brought him warm water. The sun shone and it clearly was not that early in the morn.

He smiled, thinking that his castellan must have enjoyed the wine overmuch. It was good that Eleanor was not close at hand, expecting a comment upon her spicing. Convinced that all was right, Alexander strode out of his chambers.

It was in his own hall that he discovered the fullness of his error. All was far cry from being aright at Kinfairlie.

Chapter Seven

By morning’s light, Eleanor was so exhausted that she knew she saw things that were not there.

She had raced to the kitchen at Rose’s summons and found Anthony writhing upon the floor. A touch at his throat revealed the worst, for his pulse was rapid and irregular. With no time to spare, she immediately thrust her fingers down his throat.

He vomited with gusto, and his offering was the deep red hue of wine. He fell back, panting from his effort, and closed his eyes, but Eleanor granted the older man no respite. She compelled him again and again and again to empty his belly, until only bile came from his lips. The household gathered around her in silence, and she could feel the weight of their anxiety.

For the moment, though, she concerned herself solely with Anthony. When it was clear that he could summon nothing more, she sat back and considered the situation.

“What ailed him?” asked the cook, his tone filled with a wariness that Eleanor knew all too well.

“The wine was poisoned,” she said, allowing herself to show no emotion. It had been destined for Alexander! And her spicing of the wine had ensured that no man would have noted the toxin within it. Would ill fortune never leave her side? “I suspect it was aconite. Do you grow monkshood here?”

The cook shrugged. “I take little interest in the inventories of medicinal herbs.” He cleared his throat. “It was you, my lady, who reviewed them this very night.”

And so she had. Eleanor was fairly certain that there had been aconite in the store, for it was common to possess, especially in the north. In minute quantities, the powder from its root could be soothing in a salve for painful joints and thus people were reluctant to be without it.

“What shall we do for him?” the cook asked, crouching beside her.

Eleanor considered the supine older man, whose color looked to be improving slightly. She touched her fingertips to his throat. His pulse slowed, but that could be a sign of the aconite working further. “I do not know if I came in time,” she said, seeing no reason to gild the truth. “He may recover, or he may not. He should be watched and kept warm, given milk to drink when he desires it. By morning we will know the truth.”

“Not all of the truth, my lady,” corrected the cook’s wife. “For we will not likely know by then why the wine was tainted in the first place.”

“Oh, I think there is little doubt of that,” Eleanor said flatly. “Someone endeavored to kill my lord husband, but Fortune intervened.”

They whispered at that and withdrew from her plain speech, but Eleanor did not care. She was innocent and she had no patience with those who would find a soul guilty with no evidence to their hands.

She ensured Anthony’s comfort and though he was not entirely aware of his surroundings, she persuaded him to sip of some milk. It was fresh and sweet milk, come from goats tethered in the kitchen gardens.

She sat vigil with him all of that night, bathing his brow through the sweating induced by the herb, talking to him to encourage wakefulness when his pulse slowed overmuch. She demanded his counsel more than once and the castellan was so duty bound that he stirred himself at great effort to reply.

Eleanor was tired herself and felt bent beneath the weight of the suspicion around her. With every hour that passed, she was more encouraged that Anthony would survive.

She saw things in the midst of that long dark night that she knew were not there. She imagined her father watching from the shadowed doorway, his lips drawn taut in displeasure that she had been so stupid as to feed doubts about herself. She imagined her loyal maid, Moira, hovering behind her, her expression one of concern and sympathy. Why had she left Moira behind? Eleanor had believed there to be a greater threat to Moira in traveling to an unknown destination than in lingering at Tivotdale, but now she wished that she had had one ally at Kinfairlie.

But when morning came, and Alexander arrived in the kitchens, Eleanor knew that she saw what was before her in truth. Her husband’s brow was as dark as thunder, an expression she knew as well as her own name.

Her dawning conviction that there was no violence within Alexander Lammergeier died a quick death and she feared him anew.

Eleanor straightened beside Anthony’s pallet, her heart racing, and struggled to appear suitably demure. She was painfully aware of the red stain of the castellan’s vomit upon the silk dress lent to her by her husband’s sisters. She did not doubt that her carelessness would earn his ire.

As would her other deeds. The household whispered and drew back, watchful of the inevitable encounter between laird and lady. Eleanor despised their curiosity yet at the same time was glad of their presence.

Any man was less likely to raise his fists before witnesses.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said with all the meekness she could summon. “I trust you slept well.”

“If I slept well, it was only because the truth of what occurred within these walls was kept from mine own ears,” Alexander retorted and marched to her side. “How could I not be told of this?”

Eleanor swallowed, realizing that no one else in the kitchens would answer. “I feared to see you disturbed, my lord.”

“Would you leave me slumber through the second coming, as well?” Alexander shook his head with impatience. “Eleanor, nothing is of great an import as the welfare of those in my household. In future, this omission will not be repeated.”

Eleanor bit her lip, not thinking it timely to remind Alexander that he had been in need of his own sleep to recover from the tainted wine he had imbibed the night before. A sweat broke upon her brow, for two cups of tainted wine had been served in this hall since her arrival, and she could easily guess who would bear the blame.

She spared a glance for those souls in Alexander’s household and felt sickened at the condemnation she found in their eyes. Oh, she knew this sense well, but she did not like it for all its familiarity.

Alexander meanwhile crouched beside his castellan and affection for the older man softened his expression. “How does he fare?”

“I think he will recover fully,” Eleanor said, aware that Anthony himself attended their conversation. She smiled for the older man, who managed a wan smile in return. “He was most stalwart in the battle that waged during the night.”

“I had a valiant defender, to be sure,” Anthony whispered. He grasped Alexander’s hand, and the sinews in Anthony’s hand were prominent with age.

“What happened?” Alexander asked tersely.

“There was aconite in the wine sent to your chamber last night,” Eleanor said, seeing no point in evasion. Alexander looked up at her. “It is a potent poison, one that kills a man with fearsome speed. I gather that Anthony took the wine, instead of you.”

Alexander glanced down at his castellan and Eleanor could not see his expression. “Who prepared the wine?” he asked, his tone carefully controlled. She could not guess his thoughts, that fact feeding her fear of his response.

The kitchen was so silent that Eleanor could fairly hear the mice breathing in the cellar.

“I did,” she said. She had never flinched from the truth of her deeds, whatsoever their price might be.

“And was it left unattended?”

Eleanor considered. “I do not know. It was poured before the cook and I checked the inventory in the storerooms. I do not know who else was in the kitchens during our absence.”

Alexander nodded, then impaled her with a bright glance. There were no stars in his eyes and no laughter curved his lips. He was deadly serious and she feared his judgment more than anything she had ever feared before. “And did you place the aconite in the wine, for any reason?” he asked, no accusation in his tone.

He watched her avidly and Eleanor knew that he sought evidence that she lied.

Eleanor held his gaze. “No, my lord, I did not,” she said firmly. “It is true that I did not favor the smell of the wine upon our return from the inventory, when Anthony made to carry it to you. I heated it and added some cloves, for I thought a mulling would improve its flavor.”

“The flavor was most exceptional,” Anthony said, his determination to defend Eleanor fairly rending her heart. His grip tightened on Alexander’s hand. “Do not place blame, my lord, where its presence cannot be proven.”

Alexander rose to his feet and smiled thinly. That he put aside his castellan’s hand with such firmness was no good portent in Eleanor’s thinking. “I thank you, Anthony, for your counsel,” he said gently. “And I now I would counsel you to sleep and see yourself recovered.” He shook a finger at the older man, his manner playful for the first time since he had entered the kitchens. “What should I do without your wise counsel?”

“You have your lady wife, my lord.”

“I would have you, Anthony,” Alexander said with a resolve that made Eleanor shiver.

The castellan fought against his body’s determination to rest, probably thinking it discourteous to fall asleep in the presence of his laird, but lost the battle. His eyelids fluttered, looking as thin as the finest parchment. Anthony appeared much older than he had and more frail, and Eleanor did not doubt that he had come close to losing his battle.

The castellan’s breathing deepened, though it was not deep enough for Eleanor’s taste. She did not like his pallor either and bent to touch her fingertips to the pulse at his throat once more.

At least it seemed to have regained a normal pace.

Alexander’s brow furrowed as he watched the castellan sleep. “What will come of this?” he asked in an undertone.

“I cannot say.”

He met her gaze steadily. “You can guess.”

Eleanor sighed. “He will need to rest.”

Alexander considered her and she saw that he understood the import of her words. “But you anticipate a recovery?”

“I hope for one. It is a potent poison and it was in his belly longer than one would prefer.”

His gaze touched upon the stain on her garb. “It did not agree with him?”

Eleanor held up two fingers. “I persuaded his belly to empty.”

Alexander heaved a sigh, then studied his castellan again. “Then you saved his life. Anthony is fortunate that you were here, no less that someone thought to summon you.” He took her elbow in his hand and spoke decisively. Eleanor could not help but note that his favor did not reach his eyes. “I thank you, my lady fair, for your quick wits. We shall return to our chambers now, and a hot bath will be brought for you.”

“I should remain with Anthony,” Eleanor said with panic. Any deed could be done behind the sturdy portal of that chamber, and a turn of the key would ensure that no soul could aid her.

Alexander shook his head. “Others can tend him in your absence. You have need of your own sleep and I will hear no protest against it.” He began to lead Eleanor from the kitchen, but the cook’s wife stepped into their path.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but it must be noted that your lady prepared that wine and insisted it be taken to you!”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed, his manner incisive. “My lady is above rebuke from those in my household. Any discussion upon this matter will be conducted between the lady and myself, in the privacy of our chambers.”

Eleanor shivered at the portent of that.

“But...” Rose protested.

“There is no reason why my lady would have wished me dead and less reason for her to desire Anthony’s demise,” Alexander said, his tone allowing no argument. “Instead of speculating upon nonsense, I would ask you to each consider who was in the kitchens last evening.” He gestured to his brother-in-law, who had followed him from the hall. “I charge Rhys FitzHenry with making a summary of your accountings.”

“It shall be done,” Rhys said. “You will not a one of you speak to each other before you speak alone with me.”

“I will speak first,” the cook said, stepping forward. “And I will offer my recollection to my laird Alexander.”

“Speak with Rhys, as I have bidden you all. I have another matter before me,” Alexander said with smooth assurance, his very surety making Eleanor’s spirit quail. “And those of you who are not summoned immediately to Rhys, I would have you bring the lady’s bath with all haste.”

Eleanor understood that she was to face a reckoning from her spouse, and though she appreciated that it would not occur before his household, still she was not anxious to receive this accounting. His jaw was set and she feared that Alexander had, like her other husbands, excised his charm.

He fairly marched her toward the stairs. Eleanor felt her chest tighten with every step. She did not dare defy him, lest she provoke his anger further, but she hoped that she would have the opportunity to regain his favor.

In truth, Eleanor feared her current husband more than she had ever feared another man. Alexander was young and strong and agile. If he chose to beat her, he might well kill her. She already understood that in this hall, just as in the other halls she had occupied, no soul would raise a hand to assist her.

But Eleanor was surprised to realize the difference in herself since she faced a man in those other halls. She had a keen desire to live, and she had yet more desire to live at Kinfairlie. Although she feared Alexander’s anger, a part of her dared to hope that his fury could be turned aside, that his charm could be summoned again, that Kinfairlie could prove to be the sanctuary she had initially hoped it to be.

She knew that if he granted her the slightest chance to make that dream become a reality, she would do whatsoever he demanded of her to make it so.

And that was a fearsome prospect indeed. How had this man gained so much power over her in so short a time that she would readily surrender her all to pacify him?

Eleanor did not know. She was uncertain whether to be more afraid of Alexander or her own desire to please him. They crossed the threshold of his chamber as one, then Alexander flicked the portal closed with his fingertips.

“It is time, my lady, for a measure of truth to fall from your lips,” he said with force. Eleanor watched him, not daring to imagine how he would encourage her to confess that truth.

Then she nodded agreement, as meek as she could manage to be.

* * *

Alexander noted the change in Eleanor’s manner as soon as she had turned to face him in the kitchens. She stood straight and tall, her emotions hidden, her body taut. It was as if they began anew, as strangers once more. He was reminded of her flight from the solar the day before, of her desperation to claim the key in that same incident, of the terror that had lit her eyes when he had incidentally held her hands over her head.

If he had not known better, he might have guessed that she was afraid, but he could not imagine his formidable wife being fearful of him.

“Are you certain of Anthony’s recovery? Or is there some detail you did not wish to add before the others?”

She shook her head, then wrapped her arms around herself. There were shadows beneath her eyes, making her look both tired and hunted. “I think he will recover, but it will take time.”

“What of the aconite. Do you know who added it to the wine?”

She shook her head, though did not meet his regard.

“Could its addition not have been an accident?” he asked, hoping her encourage her confidence.

Her expression said it all. “No. Someone meant harm, to be sure. Had Anthony not vomited, and done so as quickly as he had, he would have died in painful haste.”

Alexander shoved a hand through his hair. “Do you believe the tainted wine was destined for me?”

She tilted her head to regard him, her eyes narrowed. “Why do you not simply ask my intent?”

“Because you did not add the poison to the wine, of course.” She seemed so astonished by his conviction, that Alexander smiled. “I know you were well pleased yesterday, Eleanor, and though you are not anxious to surrender your heart to any man, I do not believe that you wish me such ill as that. You did, after all, ensure that our nuptials could not be annulled.” Her lips parted in astonishment and he found his smile broadening. “At least I am not the only one surprised to find myself defended,” he teased.

She swallowed and he saw a shimmer of tears on her lashes before she blinked them away. What had he done, or not done, to make her appear so grateful?

“You have found a champion in Anthony, as well, and that before this sorry incident. He was much impressed with your command of my meager resources and I am intrigued by the notion of a fair.” He watched the way she glanced up and could not name the reason for her caution. He thought to encourage her with conversation. “Where did you learn to administer a household? I thought that Ewen’s sister ruled in his hall.”

“And so she does,” Eleanor said tightly. She crossed the chamber, keeping her back to him.

“So you must have administered the hall of your first husband.”

Eleanor shook her head with resolve. “Millard desired but one deed of me as his wife and it had nothing to do with administration.” She turned to face him, her composure so complete that she might have been wrought of stone. “His mother reigned in his hall.”

“And you?”

“Awaited him abed: supine, silent and spread wide.”

Alexander granted her a wry glance. “That is rather more than I would have preferred to know.”

Eleanor smiled slightly. “It was more than I wished to know of the marital debt, you can be certain.”

“Isabella said that you told of being wedded young.”

She folded her arms across her chest and held his gaze, as if defying him to believe her. “I was twelve summers of age on the day of my first marriage, while Millard had seen two and sixty summers.”

“Where did you meet such a man?”

“At the altar. My father said that Millard wed me on the rumor of my beauty, no more and no less.” Eleanor shrugged. “He must have been pleased, for he came to me daily until his demise.”

Alexander paused, knowing that he had to ask. On this morning, his thoughts were full of Alan’s accusations and the lady’s manner did little to dispel those harsh words. “How did Millard die?”

Eleanor held his gaze unflinchingly. “He ceased to live.”

“Meaning?”

“That he ceased to breathe, and thus he died.” She seemed to be daring him to accuse her of some foul deed and that alone made Alexander reluctant to do so.

All the same, he wished for a better answer.

“There was no other contributing factor, then, save his age?”

“He retired hale but did not awaken from that night’s slumber.”

“Eleanor, I would wager that you know more of this than you admit. Tell me of it.”

Eleanor averted her gaze. Alexander waited, hearing the sea roll upon the shore, watching her fight some inner demon.

Finally she swallowed and spoke, her words strained. “It was rumored, of course, that his passing had not been a natural one, and this is the rumor to which Alan Douglas would allude.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Because Millard’s young bride was unhappy, and known to be so by all. She was not clever enough to hide her true feelings from those who might use such detail against her.” Eleanor licked her lips, awkward as Alexander had never seen her.

He found it intriguing that she spoke of her own past as if it had occurred to someone else. If it was easier for her thus, then some horrific deed must have occurred in Millard’s hall. “And as you know something of poisons, the blame fell upon you,” he guessed, wanting to aid her in telling her tale.

“It was not so simple as that.” She turned to the window, arms yet wrapped tightly around herself. Alexander waited, granting her all the time she needed, though in truth, he feared what she might say.

What she did say surprised him.

“It is true that I learned of plants, including the toxic ones, but not because I had any particular interest in it. It was simply due to circumstance in my father’s household.”

Her words were tight, as if she had to fight to loose then, and he appreciated that it was difficult for her to surrender such information about herself. He was honored that she chose to confide in him, though he could not fathom why she did so.

“When I was a child, there was a woman in my father’s abode who knew much of mixing potions. She was like your Jeannie, an old crone filled with secrets, to whom few spoke unless they had need of her talents. She taught her skills to me.”

“Your father arranged for such a tutor for you?” His shock made Eleanor smile thinly.

“Hardly that!” She glanced over her shoulder at him and their gazes snared for a long moment.

He could see her uncertainty and knew that she had never confided in another soul before. He lifted his hand to encourage her, but Eleanor turned her back abruptly upon him. Alexander wondered whether she sought to hide something from him, or whether she avoided the distraction of the desire between them. He was well aware of her lithe curves, well aware of the way the winter sunlight made her look both icy and fragile. Her vulnerability touched him as resoundingly as her rare passion did.

He laid his hand upon her shoulder and was startled to feel her tremble.

Perhaps she was cold. The wind was chill this morn and the shutters were drawn back from the window. He lifted her own cloak, so richly trimmed, and tucked it over her shoulders. She clutched it, her fingers bloodless.

“My father would have been shocked, had he known, and surely would have put an end to those discussions. She was merely a woman of the woods, bedraggled and passing strange, but she talked to me.” She shrugged and her breath caught before she continued. “I heeded her lessons so that she would not leave me alone again.”

Eleanor had been a lonely child. Alexander heard the confession she did not explicitly make. “And you kept the truth of it from your father, the better that he would not interfere.”

“It was not difficult. He was gone to war most of the time.”

Alexander slid his fingertip across her shoulders, nudging the silk of her hair to one side, and spoke softly. “And your mother?”

“Died in the bearing of me. We were two only, for my father never wed again.”

Alexander understood a little more of the root of his lady’s cool manner. She had been alone as a child, and he felt a sympathy for her. No wonder she had no regard for love in a marriage: her father must have felt none for her mother, and her husbands had shown little to Eleanor. What did she know of love? Where could she have learned of it?

Alexander was aware then of the abundance with which he had been blessed at Kinfairlie. He felt humbled that he had possessed so many gifts for so long and never appreciated their value. He had no right to complain, now that his blessings were less bountiful. “Tell me of your father,” he urged, letting his fingertips trail across the bare flesh at the lady’s nape.

She stared resolutely out the window at Kinfairlie village. “There is little to tell. He was a lord, like yourself, and one who took his duties most seriously.”

“Even the duties of a father?”

“He saw me fed and clothed,” Eleanor said tightly. “He rode to war, and saw our borders secured.”

“That is a meager measure, Eleanor.”

She straightened. “One takes what one is offered and makes the most of it.”

“One can always wish for more.”

She looked down at her hands and he felt her shoulders shake anew. “I always hoped,” she said quietly, “that each time he rode out, it would be the last time he did as much, but in truth, I think he did not wish to linger at our abode. He was always restless, always anxious to be gone.”

“Because of you?”

“Clearly.” Eleanor turned to confront him and he ached at the loneliness in her eyes. “My mother died in the bearing of me, and I suspect that my father could not look at me without recalling his loss. He certainly did not look long or often.”

Alexander frowned as several details came together in his thoughts. “Wait. Do not tell me that you administered your father’s household in your mother’s stead, though you were but a child?”

Eleanor shrugged. “It was some deed I could do, some way in which I could be useful to him.”

“But you were wed at twelve!”

“Daughters are seldom useful to fathers as sons can be. I strove to show that there was some merit in my presence.”

Alexander guessed the true root lay elsewhere. “You did as much to gain his favor,” he suggested and she averted her gaze. “Is that why you undertook such responsibility in my hall last night? Did you mean to win my favor with your talents?”

She took a quick breath and squared her shoulders. “I have learned that men prefer to have a clean and organized hall, and to have their meals served in timely fashion, and to not be obliged to adjudicate over quibbles in the kitchen.”

“And you have learned that men desire that and only one other feat from their wives, is that not so?”

She met his gaze, daring him to tell her otherwise. “What else would a man expect from a wife?”

“Companionship,” Alexander said with force. “Friendship and the sharing of counsel.” Eleanor looked so skeptical that he elaborated. “My father relied upon my mother’s ability to understand people, for she had insight into the nature of others that far exceeded his own. Thus they ruled Kinfairlie more justly together than either could have done alone.”

Eleanor said nothing. She did not move. He might not have spoken for all the reaction she showed, but Alexander sensed that Eleanor gave his words consideration. He watched her and waited, wondering what he might do to convince her to surrender more of her truth, wondering how he might persuade her of his intent, wondering if he truly could heal her wounds without knowing the malady.

“You were afraid when we left the kitchens,” he said quietly. “Tell me why. Tell me what you thought I would do.”

She straightened then, his warrior queen, and met his gaze with resolve. His heart thundered with pride at her valor. He did not doubt that she had endured much, but she had a fierce spirit, one that was not readily daunted.

“No more and no less than other men do.”

“I have done what I was taught that men should do. I have asked your counsel,” he said. “What else would you expect of me?”

Eleanor stepped out from beneath the weight of his hand and crossed the chamber with hurried steps.

“There can be no match between us without honesty,” Alexander reminded her. “Though you have clearly learned to be cautious with your trust, you must confide in me, Eleanor. You must do so, or we can never make a match in truth.”

“You are vexed with me.”

“I am vexed in my attempts to make a good marriage of a poor beginning. Your reticence alone is the obstacle between us.”

She watched him closely. “Not rumor?”

“I give no credence to rumor, nor to accusations made by a man like Alan Douglas. Confide in me, Eleanor.”

She took a deep breath, as if steadying herself. “Then let me tell you this. Rumor was fed in the matter of Millard’s death by his young widow’s refusal to weep at his funeral.”

Alexander chose his question with care, for there was clearly a great deal to this tale and he did not wish her to fall silent so soon. “And was rumor further encouraged by his young wife’s manner toward him. Did she wish him dead?”

Eleanor nodded with vigor. “Often and with great passion.” She choked on her words and Alexander recalled Isabella’s surety that Eleanor’s first husband had been cruel. “She could not summon any grief for his passing, only relief that he could torment her no longer.” She marched the width of the chamber then, her features taut with some old fury.

“But there was no accusation made against her, was there?”

“There was rumor and there was her father’s desire to ally with the Black Douglas clan. Ewen Douglas arrived with the widow’s father to claim her before rumor could amount to a charge.” Eleanor granted him a shrewd glance. “But that does not mean that the charge would not have come. It certainly does not mean that Millard’s widow could not have been found guilty, nor that she would not have been executed for her sin.”

“Her sin? You speak as if she were guilty.”

Eleanor stared unseeingly across the chamber. “She did kill him, though not in the way that all believed.”

Alexander started but Eleanor did not seem aware of him, so lost was she in painful recollection.

“Millard died atop his wife, in what he called his favored place in all his demesne,” she said bitterly. “He heaved atop her with his usual vigor that night, then fell still so abruptly that she was gladdened. She was gladdened that the ordeal had been of shorter duration than was his custom. Then she realized not only that he moved no more, but that he was so large a man that she could not dislodge his weight.”

Alexander looked away, sickened.

But Eleanor stared at Alexander, her eyes glittering, her words hot. “And so she laid, all the night, feeling him turn cold atop her, awaiting a servant’s aid to be freed. During that night, she knew herself to be filled with sin and recognized this as her punishment. She had wickedly yearned for her spouse’s demise.”

“That is not the same as killing him!”

“Millard had oft claimed that his wife’s very presence aroused his lust to such might that he could think of little beyond bedding her. And so, as it was the lust she fed that claimed his life, it could easily be argued that she did kill him.”

“I would not argue thus,” Alexander said, but she ignored him.

Eleanor took a ragged breath and her words spilled in a heated rush. “And it would not be a lie to say that she oft wished in later years that the charge had been made against her, and she had been found guilty of her sins, and that her time on this earth had been ended, for then she would not have been wed to Ewen Douglas.” She tipped back her head, holding Alexander’s gaze, daring and defying him once more.

“Because he struck her?”

Eleanor closed her eyes, then took a breath. “Often, but always where the bruise would not be seen by another.”

Alexander exhaled mightily, shaken by her confession. “But then, if she had been executed, that young widow would never have come to Kinfairlie,” he said.

Eleanor nodded agreement without hesitation. “And that would have been dreadful indeed.”

“Why do you say as much?”

“Because here there is hope, and here there is sanctuary.” She crossed the chamber and reached a hand to him and he saw that elusive shimmer of tears in her eyes. “For here in Kinfairlie there reigns a laird who will not treat his lady wife unjustly, a laird who puts no credence in rumor without evidence.” She swallowed. “Here, I hope, reigns a laird who has no violence within him.”

Alexander caught her hand in his, felt her trembling and knotted his fingers with hers. “You are right, though I am awed that you grant me such credit so readily.”

Eleanor smiled thinly. “One has only to be bitten by a dog once to see the difference between good hounds and vicious ones.” She shrugged. “Though I confess that my fear of hounds and their teeth is too deep to be evaded fully.”

“So now I am as complex as a hound,” Alexander teased.

“I am sorry. I did not mean...”

“I know your meaning. I merely sought your smile.” Alexander’s one hand rose to cup her face. He did not know how to begin to express his admiration for her, for she had endured much in her days. He was honored that she even granted him a chance to prove that all men were not brutes. “We had best end this conversation before I take insult with its direction.”

Alarm flickered across her features, despite his teasing tone, though Alexander now knew its root.

He bent and brushed his lips to hers. “You should be warned, lady mine, that when I am insulted by a lady’s estimation of my nature, I feel an overwhelming urge to prove her expectations wrong.” She smiled ever so fleetingly, uncertainty still lingering in her eyes, then Alexander kissed her fully.

He had to wait only a heartbeat before she softened and leaned against him. She shivered as he caught her close but she parted her lips to his embrace. He knew that his lady fought her dragons with as much determination as he.

Alexander had no doubt that between the efforts of the two of them, those unwelcome beasts would soon be banished from the realm.

* * *

The man defied expectation. He was not one to use his fists, not like Ewen, which was a relief in truth. Still, Eleanor was cautious. Millard, after all, had been possessed of a smooth charm that disguised his cruelty.

She had learned early that welcoming him abed made the household more peaceful.

It was, however, far simpler to consider the merit of welcoming Alexander between her thighs. He kissed her with that seductive ease, his lips moving persuasively against hers.

Eleanor barely hesitated before she met his caress with an ardor of her own. He had not judged her. He had not struck her. He had listened to her with compassion. She did not feel stripped bare after having made her confession and though she could not pledge to love Alexander Lammergeier, she was encouraged that honesty and trust might suit him well enough.

And a son, of course.

Their kiss heated with astonishing speed, her hands rising to tangle in his hair, his arms locking around her waist. He kissed her with such delicious abandon that Eleanor almost forgot the instruction he had given in the kitchens below.

Thus she jumped as high as Alexander when the heavy rap came upon the portal. “Your bath, my lady!” cried some soul, then pushed the door open. Alexander beckoned and the wooden tub was rolled into the middle of the chamber. A veritable army from the kitchens followed, carrying kettles of steaming water and pouring their contents into the tub in succession.

Then Isabella appeared in the doorway. Her manner was cautious, as it had not been in Eleanor’s presence thus far, though she smiled at Alexander. “I would bring you a nuptial gift,” she said with a quick glance at Eleanor. She offered something in her fist, her cheeks coloring.

“And what is this?” Eleanor accepted the small glass vial, but did not know whether to loose the stopper or not. Was this a jest, or a comment upon her knowledge of herbs?

“It is for your bath,” Isabella said. “I knew it would be perfect when I heard you had summoned a bath for Eleanor. Rosamunde granted it to me upon my thirteenth birthday and told me to save it for my wedding night. She said it would conjure sweetness between man and wife, though I know not what she meant. I would give it to you, as an apology and as a nuptial gift.”

“Are you certain?” Eleanor asked. She had already noted that these siblings held this departed aunt in esteem. “Surely you wish to keep this gift for yourself, as you were bidden.”

“I have never done what I was bidden,” Isabella admitted with a laugh.

“There is truth enough,” Alexander muttered with some affection.

“While I suppose that you were as innocent as all the angels!” Isabella retorted, giving her brother a poke in the shoulder. “I will never forget that frog you left in my best slippers.”

“That must have been a decade ago.” Alexander grinned, unrepentant. “How can you even recall it with certainty?”

“I never did get the smell of it out of the leather,” Isabella huffed. “A word of counsel to you, Eleanor. Keep a close eye upon your slippers -”

“Or your frogs,” Alexander interjected.

“- for this rogue is cursed quick.”

“I shall do as much,” Eleanor said, unable to keep herself from smiling. Kinfairlie must have been noisy indeed with these children underfoot, all playing pranks upon each other!

Perhaps she should surrender more than one son to Alexander, the better to ensure that her children grew up amidst the noise and merriment she had never known. The very prospect made Eleanor’s blood heat and she found herself watching her spouse.

He spared a sparkling glance for the vial. “I thought you curious, Isabella. Do you not fear that you surrender part of the mystery, and that with it unexplored?”

“Trust you to make me regret my impulse,” Isabella retorted and Alexander laughed.

“In truth, you will receive no other trinkets from Rosamunde,” he said, sobering. “If you change your thinking now, neither of us will think the worse of you.”

Eleanor offered the vial in silent agreement, but Isabella shook her head. “I must surrender something of import to make this matter come aright. My error against you was not small, Alexander, and this vial is a small price to pay for your forgiveness.”

“As well as a silver ring?”

“As well,” Isabella said with force. Eleanor could not help but admire that these siblings had been taught to make matters right, to apologize for their errors and ensure that justice was preserved.

“You have my forgiveness already,” Alexander said and Isabella smiled.

“Then take it as a gift.”

Alexander lifted the vial from Eleanor’s grasp and viewed it with mock skepticism. “This and the silver ring,” he mused, considering the vial. “Methinks, my lady, that there must be something amiss with this potion, or else this is not truly my sister Isabella.”

“Truly?” Eleanor asked, lowering her voice to match his.

“Oh, she is a beauty, but is one with a keen grasp upon her possessions. It is unlike her to surrender much of merit.”

“Oh, you could simply thank me!” Isabella cried.

Alexander pulled the stopper, then he and Eleanor sniffed as one.

“Lavender,” Eleanor said. “With rose and honey, I would wager.” She laid her hand upon Alexander’s and met his twinkling gaze. “I must confess that I have always found that mingling of scents particularly beguiling.”

Alexander dumped the entire contents of the vial into the steaming tub, then smiled wickedly. “Are you beguiled, my lady?”

“By more than scent, to be sure.” Eleanor smiled, enjoying that they teased Isabella, but Alexander’s gaze heated.

He turned abruptly upon his sister and pointed to the portal. “Time it is for you to leave.”

“Oh, just as matters become interesting!” she protested good-naturedly. “I shall never know the truth of what happens between man and wife.”

“All the more reason to choose a spouse with haste,” Eleanor said. Alexander laughed at that, to her confusion, and Isabella cast her hands skyward.

“You even sound the same as him, and this in merely two days!” she charged, then laughed and was gone. Alexander shut the door firmly behind her and locked it with a flourish. He tossed the key into the air, caught it, then cast it to Eleanor.

She caught it, despite her surprise.

“You were afraid yesterday when I locked the portal,” he said quietly, his eyes gleaming. “I do not like fear in a woman and I do not think it fitting for a lady to feel compelled to flee the chamber she should think of as her own. This key will always be in your grasp.”

Eleanor smiled as she fingered the cold key. She tied it to her belt, liking that her new husband was perceptive and kind. Perhaps it was not all bad to confess a secret or two, provided such gems were surrendered to the right person.

Dare she hope that this husband was the right person?

“Such thoughtfulness is deserving of reward,” she mused, then kicked off her shoes.

Alexander looked about himself in mock confusion. “Ah, but I cannot think of a single advantage lacking in my life,” he said with a frown. “I have a beauteous wife, my siblings are hale, my keep is sufficiently warm.”

That he could recount advantages with sincerity when his treasury was empty warmed Eleanor’s heart. She halted before him and raised a hand to touch his jaw. There was a shadow of stubble there that prickled against her fingertips. He watched her, smiling slightly, neither rushing her nor demanding of her. Eleanor stretched to her toes and touched her lips to that smile.

“I can think of one thing lacking,” she whispered against his throat. The taste of him made her blood quicken and her mouth go dry. The height and breadth of him made her feel delicate and feminine. His patience made her feel potent.

“Then enlighten me,” he murmured, his words stirring her hair. “For I cannot imagine what it might be.”

“You do not have a son.”

“True enough. But what might we do to remedy that?”

Eleanor met the merry sparkle in his eyes and pretended to consider this quandary. She liked that Alexander let her set the pace of their lovemaking, and liked even better that he was playful abed. His manner fed her confidence in her own allure and showed her much of her own desire for intimacy.

To think that she had always been called cold by her spouses. This one kindled a fire within her that could not be denied. His was a gift, one deserving of a gift in return, and Eleanor knew that the son whose birth would see Kinfairlie’s treasury filled was the sole gift that would suffice.

That Alexander courted her favor in ignorance of what she could give him was the most seductive detail of all.

Chapter Eight

Alexander watched as Eleanor pursed her lips and pretended to consider the conundrum of finding him a son. Her lips were so full and ruddy that he longed to kiss her, but he steeled himself to wait. It was a man’s violence that made her uncertain, though already he sensed that she overcame that memory.

Had Millard struck her, as well as Ewen? Perhaps her father too had been abusive of her. A part of Alexander seethed that any man would see fit to injure a woman to see his will reign supreme.

That Eleanor met him abed with as little fear as she did filled him with awe and admiration. She was valiant, there was no doubt about it, though Alexander knew that full trust between himself and his wife would only come when she was certain of his intent.

So he waited, his blood boiling, and let her seduce him. It was a sweet torture he endured for the sake of marital harmony, but he could not have done anything else and been the man he was.

Eleanor let her fingertips slide down his throat in a light caress that left a trail of fire across his flesh. Her touch paused upon the thrum of his pulse in his throat and she met his gaze as if amazed by the power of her own touch. Alexander smiled, hoping she saw the fullness of his admiration for her.

She caught her breath and her lashes fluttered downward, as if she could not bear to look upon his passion. She fanned out her hands and ran them down his chest, her touch firmer as she felt him through his garb. Alexander stood utterly still and watched her, unable to discern her response.

Her hands landed upon the buckle of his belt with purpose and he caught his breath. Then she looked up, her eyes glittering with desire and his heart clenched. “You could claim a foundling and grant him your name,” she mused.

Alexander pretended to consider this. He clenched his fists at his sides, for he dared not reach for her yet and frighten her. “I could, if only I was not so proud of my lineage. Perhaps that would be more fitting for a second son, instead of my heir.”

Eleanor unfastened his belt and laid it aside, then slid her hands beneath his tabard. “Doubtless you speak aright,” she said, as she coaxed the garment over his head. She unknotted the tie in his chemise with quick fingers. She wrinkled her nose, then cast him a playful glance. “But I have heard that your wife is cold, and does not welcome you between her thighs.”

Alexander shook a finger at her. “You should not give credit to rumor!”

“Is she not frosty, then?” Eleanor opened her eyes wide, then tugged his chemise over his head and cast it aside. She swallowed as she looked upon him, then raised one hand slowly and laid it over his heart.

Alexander captured her hand within his, turned it within his grasp and kissed her palm. She watched him, scarce seeming to breathe, and he smiled at her. “She has endured much,” he said softly. “And keeps her secrets closely as a result. Any man with his wits about him would see that time is the best salve for this wound.”

She pulled her hand free of his grasp, then reached for the lace of his chausses. “My father oft said that a woman has need of a babe in her arms to be truly content. Perhaps your wife could be persuaded to surrender that son to you.”

Alexander was confused by her persistent references to sons. Had her failure to conceive been at root of her former husbands’ displeasure? “My father oft said that it is love that makes a woman truly content. Although I would welcome a son or even a daughter, it is not imperative that I have either.”

She glanced up, clearly surprised.

Alexander smiled. “I have two younger brothers: one has no title and the other has seen his inheritance collapse into rubble. Either of them would welcome the suzerainty of Kinfairlie, should I be without heir.”

“There are more of you than the sisters I have met?”

“Seven siblings do I have. Five sisters and two brothers.”

“That is astonishing,” she said, clearly amazed. “And your father had how many wives?”

“Only one. He loved her with such fervor that he would never have claimed another had she died before him.” Alexander cupped Eleanor’s face in his hands while she marveled at this and brushed his lips across hers. “But because of my brothers, my lady wife need not fret about bearing sons. There is no concern that she must prove herself useful to remain in my affections.”

Eleanor regarded him for a long moment, then her fingers eased into his chausses. She caressed him so that he caught his breath, then she smiled.

“You like this,” she said, though her manner seemed so dutiful that Alexander guessed the reason behind her deed.

He laid claim to her hand, halting her fingers. “You have a beguiling touch, but I would not embraced for duty alone.” He watched her, noting her surprise. “I welcome your caress, Eleanor, only if it is one you wish to give, not if it is one you feel obliged to give.”

She eyed him for a long moment, then her lips curved in a warm smile. She reached for her laces and quickly loosed her kirtle, stepping out of the ample silk folds. She untied her garters, her fingers shaking in her haste, then cast her stockings aside. She shed her chemise and shook out her hair so that it fell shimmering down her back. Her flesh gleamed in the morning’s light, her nipples beaded in the chill of the chamber. She was as beauteous as a nymph, as graceful as a fairy maiden in one of Vivienne’s favored tales.

But she turned and offered her hand to Alexander, her eyes uncommonly bright, a smile upon her lips. “Isabella speaks aright,” she said, her voice husky. “Her potion does indeed conjure a sweetness between man and wife that knows no compare. Come, my lord, join me in my bath before it cools overmuch. You may find your life complete, but my fondest desire is to surrender to you a son. To succeed in that quest, I will have need of your aid.”

Alexander laughed and took his lady’s hand. He kissed her knuckles even as he shed his chausses. “I am only too glad to come to a lady’s assistance,” he said with gallantry and she shook a chiding finger at him.

“You will aid only this lady in matters of creating sons,” she teased, a merry glint in her eye, and Alexander was content to cede to that request as well.

This time, he resolved, the lady would be atop him, the better to encourage her confidence. The very prospect of Eleanor’s surprise made Alexander smile, though it was a merry while before she discovered what so amused her lord husband.

And then she was so astonished that he laughed in truth.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Alexander descended to the hall. He called for some cold meat, for activities abed had ensured that he missed the midday meal, and joined Rhys at the table. That man looked more grim than was his custom.

“How fares Anthony?” Alexander asked.

“Well enough, I suppose. He slept this morn.”

“And what tidings have you of the wine?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “You have a busy hall, Alexander. It seems that every soul in Kinfairlie passed through your kitchens last evening. Some noted the wine and some did not; some know when they were there and others do not. All were savoring their measure of the laird’s ale, so their testimony reflects as much.”

“Ah. I had feared it might be so.”

“It is impossible to eliminate any one person from any list of possibilities.” Rhys braced his elbows upon the board and gave Alexander a steady look. “Which means, of course, that any man of sense must look at the best prospects first. Does any soul wish you dead?”

“Not as I know of it.” Alexander shrugged. “But then, it would be particularly witless to tell one’s victim of one’s intent.”

“This is no jest,” Rhys said sternly.

“I meant no jest. I meant only that someone who would conjure such a scheme, the better to ensure that he or she could not be named as responsible, must be keen of wit.”

“That is fairly spoken,” Rhys acknowledged. He traced a circle on the wooden table and Alexander guessed that he would not welcome whatsoever his brother-in-law said next. “It must also be said that whosoever is responsible must know something of poisons.” Rhys looked up then, his expression somber.

Alexander pushed aside the remainder of his bread, his hunger eliminated. “You speak of Eleanor.”

Rhys took a deep breath. “I confess that I possess a wariness of healing women and those who know much of toxins, but there is much uncommon in this, Alexander.” He ticked points off on his fingers. “Consider that Alan Douglas has called her a murderess...”

“Alan Douglas is scarcely a man whose word is of repute!”

“Consider that he too alluded to some tale that she had killed her first spouse, as well...”

“She explained this to me. It is not of import.”

“Consider that she did not confess to you her full name,” Rhys said with resolve. “I do not excuse my wife and her sisters from responsibility in this ploy, but Eleanor was the sole one who knew that wedding her would pit you against your neighbors. She should have spoken of her alliances.”

“She and I have discussed this matter as well.”

“Aye, and if you wed a woman charged with murder, even if that is but rumor, you must wonder at the truth of it when your own life is in peril.” Rhys held up two fingers. “Twice in so many days your life has hung in the balance, Alexander. What does your wife gain in your absence? Kinfairlie is a prize, to be sure.”

Alexander turned away with a frown, not wanting to correct Rhys’ notions of Kinfairlie’s wealth. Any confession to Rhys would be certain to make its way to Madeline’s ears and thence to those of all his siblings. “It is not so rich as that,” he said gruffly.

Rhys snorted. “It is more than many can call to their names, to be sure. Do you not think it odd that a woman should be so anxious to wed as your lady has proven to be?”

Rhys leaned forward. “Do you not think it odd that when you proposed to annul the match, the lady not only ensured that your nuptials were consummated but that there were witnesses of her deed? You cannot easily put her aside after that.”

“I do not think she called for the witnesses,” Alexander said.

“Believe what you must.”

Alexander stared at the board, doubts roiling within him. “She has confessed only to wanting a son,” he said quietly.

Rhys scoffed. “So with your demise, she would administer Kinfairlie as regent in that son’s stead. She would not be the first woman intent upon ensuring herself affluent and powerful without the burden of a spouse.”

“Rhys, you cannot know this...” Alexander protested.

“No, I cannot.” Rhys pushed to his feet. “It is no more than rumor and speculation, and I pray that I do not malign an innocent woman. But there were whispers in your hall, Alexander, and suspicion in the thoughts of many.”

“Alan Douglas does not have a word of repute.”

“Yet still his brother Ewen is dead, and still his lady wife came here with no more than the garb upon her back. Why else would she have fled Tivotdale upon her husband’s demise, other than her own guilt?”

Alexander stared at the table, his thoughts roiling.

Rhys heaved a sigh. “We plan to depart for Caerwyn on the morrow, as you well know, though if you would have us linger at Kinfairlie, we will do this. I would not leave you in peril.”

Alexander forced a smile, defending his lady wife without a second thought. “Rhys, I appreciate your counsel, but I think you make much of little. Rumor has served the lady poorly, as have her former spouses, but I know our match will prove amiable.”

“Then ask her about this. That is all I request of you. At least have her explanation of what occurred at Tivotdale.”

“He struck her, Rhys.”

“That would not see a man dead.”

Alexander wondered, for Rhys spoke justly. What had occurred at Tivotdale? Why had Eleanor fled, and done so in such fear of pursuit?

Rhys studied Alexander for a long moment, then shrugged. “I thank you for the courtesy of accepting my honest speech for what it is,” he said, his tone more formal than it had been previously.

“I thank you for your counsel, Rhys.”

Rhys left him then. Alexander watched as Madeline came to her spouse with a smile and Rhys bent his head toward his lady wife. His hand landed upon her belly as he attended her words and Alexander was pleased at the light in his sister’s eyes.

He turned away, thinking it unseemly to watch them so openly, and considered the ale in his cup. Surely Rhys was wrong? But Eleanor had been too close at hand the night before, and she had lingered uncommonly long in the kitchens after the wine had been sent to him. There was no reason for her to have performed an inventory on Christmas night, to be sure.

Unless she wished to ensure that any soul could have touched the wine. And she could have brought the wine to him herself, instead of finding other labors in the kitchens.

Unless she wished to be certain that her victim was beyond aid by the time she ascended to the solar.

Alexander heaved a sigh, awkward with his own suspicions. He could not argue that her seduction of him had been deliberate, and even she had not protested that conclusion. He recalled Eleanor’s capabilities with accounts, her counsel on balancing his ledgers, her competent administration of his hall. What need had such a woman of a spouse, once she had a son?

The lady had as much as admitted that she had no intent to love him. Indeed, she did not believe in love, which meant that her objectives must all be worldly ones.

Like property and power.

Could Rhys be right?

Alexander pushed to his feet, newly restless. He strode to the kitchens to assure himself that Anthony recovered.

It would be reprehensible if that man’s loyalty was rewarded with malice. Alexander hoped and prayed that no one in his household paid the price for any foul intent toward himself.

* * *

The castellan’s pallet had been moved closer to the hearth, yet out of the way, the better to see him warm. Anthony must have been recovering, for he had braced himself on one elbow to watch the proceedings.

“You should use less saffron in the sauce,” he said to the cook. “It is cursed expensive and my lord is not wrought of coin.”

“If there is not sufficient saffron, the sauce will be thin and pale,” the cook argued. “Which will tell every guest that his presence at the laird’s table is not welcome.”

“But still...” Anthony argued.

“But still, the lady has ordered a saffron sauce!”

“But still...” Anthony persisted.

“But still,” the cook retorted, his voice rising with every word. “It is Christmas and the cost of saffron is of less import than a proper sauce!”

“Well said,” Alexander interjected.

Everyone in the kitchen straightened at his words and spun to face him, for they had been unaware of his presence.

The cook bowed deeply. “Good day, my lord. Would you review the menu for the morrow?”

“Has my lady wife discussed it with you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then I trust all is well.”

“Yes, my lord.” The cook waved at his minions and they scampered back to their labors. His wife chopped scallions with a vengeance, her lips tight with disapproval.

“Is there a matter of concern, Rose?” Alexander asked and that woman took a fortifying breath.

“I would beg your leave, my lord, to speak freely.”

Alexander inclined his head. “Of course.” He feared that Rose would indict Eleanor as well, but she jabbed her knife in Anthony’s direction.

“If ever a man deserved another measure of what laid him low, there he be! All the day long he has counseled us upon what we know best how to do, and truly -” she waggled the blade with no small threat “- my patience thins.” She drew another breath and met Alexander’s gaze. “If it pleases my lord, it would also please us to have your castellan heal elsewhere.”

Alexander dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “My mother oft said that any man sufficiently hale to complain is sufficiently hale to rise from the sickbed.”

Rose smiled with satisfaction. “I always knew your mother to be wise beyond compare, my lord. God rest her soul.” And she crossed herself, that considerable blade yet in her hand.

“Use some care, Rose, or you will be bereft of a nose,” Alexander teased and the cook’s wife laughed. He made his way to Anthony’s side and was pleased to see that the older man’s eyes gleamed and his color was good. “What say you, Anthony? Do you feel hale again?”

“I but await instruction from your lady wife, my lord, for she is beyond competent in such matters.” The older man beamed, his admiration for Eleanor clearly undiminished. “The lady Eleanor insisted that she would look upon me this evening and I pledged to await her decision at that time.”

The company in the kitchens groaned as one.

“Perhaps you might be persuaded to take a respite in the great hall,” Alexander suggested. “The Yule log burns there so the hall is almost as warm as the kitchens and you can better supervise the replacement of the strewing herbs from there.”

“An excellent notion, my lord. I should not wish for your lady to find disfavor with such a simple matter.”

The cook gestured and two young boys rushed to aid Anthony to rise to his feet. Alexander swallowed a smile at his impression that the castellan was being ushered out of the kitchen with haste. He winked at the cook as he accompanied the castellan, and the cook winked in return.

He knew he did not imagine the muted cheer that echoed in their wake.

“Women,” Anthony expounded, “have a most admirable affection for detail and your lady wife, true to this, specified very clearly which plants should be strewn in the hall. What foresight you show, my lord, in perceiving that I wished to be present to ensure that all was as she had commanded.” He heaved a sigh when he reached a bench and spared Alexander a glance. “Such a marvel of a woman, of course, must always endure jealous gossip at her own expense in her abode. It is a failure of human nature, after all, to despise those who are better than we ourselves.”

“Truly?” Alexander asked. “What have you heard said against my lady wife?”

“I would not insult your ears with such petty detail, my lord.”

“I bid you tell me, Anthony. I will not surrender such tales to my lady, upon this you have no fear.”

The older man smiled. “You were always a most gallant man. Your father would be proud of you, my lord.”

Alexander looked away, not certain he wished to speculate upon that notion.

The castellan cleared his throat. “It was Jeannie, my lord, who said the worst of it. I think her manner sour in the way of one who has been discredited. She was not present to aid me and resents the presence of one who knows as much of herbs as she does, to be sure...”

“And what did Jeannie say?”

“That your lady did not save my life. Can you imagine the folly of that?” Anthony huffed in his outrage. “After your lady deigned to soil her own noble fingers...”

“But what did Jeannie mean?” Alexander interrupted him to ask.

“She said that if it had been a killing dose, I would have died regardless of what your lady did to assist me. She said that among toxins, aconite is most quick and it is fatal.” He held Alexander’s gaze. “You must recall, my lord, that Jeannie is aged and bitter...”

“What else did she say?”

“She said that it must have been a warning, a measure inadequate to kill a man but one solely meant to weaken him.”

Alexander tented his fingers together as he considered this. Why would any person wish him to be warned? And warned of what? He could not fathom such reasoning, for surely, if a man was wanted dead, there was no justification for a half-measure.

He smiled for Anthony. “I recall also that Jeannie is oft said to be mad.”

“Just so, my lord, just so.” Anthony smiled, reassured that he had not given offense and Alexander left him to harass the maids who labored in the hall.

He needed to think, and to do so in the absence of his wife. Though the evidence against Eleanor was scant or nonexistent, the possibilities were sufficiently troubling. If Rhys was correct, then Alexander planting his seed in his lady’s belly might see his days numbered.

On the other hand, Rhys did not know all of Eleanor’s tale. Instinct told Alexander that Eleanor had need of his trust to see the wounds of her past healed, despite how evidence might be mustered against her. For the moment, he chose to avoid his lady and her copious charms.

Fortunately, he had duties aplenty to perform.

* * *

Something was amiss.

Eleanor could fairly smell it. She awakened alone in Alexander’s bed, and though she lingered there until the sky darkened, he did not return to her. She washed and dressed then and descended to the hall. Every person there greeted her politely, but their gazes danced away from hers. No one stayed by her side, though their manners could not be faulted.

It was wariness she sensed and Eleanor knew the reason for it. Solely Anthony greeted her with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. He expressed gratitude for her aid and attention, though was clearly glad to be given leave to return to his duties.

And then Eleanor was alone again, as she had been alone for most of her days and nights. She checked upon the various tasks she had left requests to be done, though she knew full well what she would find. Every command she had granted had been fulfilled, every detail was organized as she had seen fit. Alexander’s hall was as well-managed as she could ensure, yet Alexander himself was notably absent.

She heard tell of him heading to the village, that he fulfilled some old tradition by accepting a cup of ale from the sheriff, and felt only disappointment that she had not been included. Doubtless he had not wished to awaken her, for Alexander was chivalrous to a fault, but Eleanor had a persistent sense that there was more to the tale.

His sisters invited her to share in their embroidery, but it was clear that they had each claimed a specific panel of the piece to highlight their own work. They chattered to each other of people she did not know and relations she had never met and past Yuletides that she had not shared. Eleanor knew that they did not mean to be cruel, but she was achingly aware that she was not customarily in their company.

And that as yet, she did not belong at Kinfairlie.

Vivienne’s two daughters, perhaps sensing her mood, demanded of her a tale, but Eleanor could only deny them. She did not know any tales, at least none suitable for such young girls. They professed astonishment at her ignorance with such youthful candor that she could not be offended, then returned to their mother who did know many tales.

Once again, Eleanor found herself yearning for all she had not known in her days. Her father had had no patience with fanciful tales and her tutors had not spared the time on such fripperies, at his dictate.

She paced the hall with dissatisfaction, lacking some ingredient in the recipe for her own delight. That it was one she could readily name made little difference.

That it was the presence of a man should have been more troubling than it was.

Alexander remained absent until it was well past time to retire. Eleanor would not name his departure as her malady, for that would imply that she already relied upon him. After all, they had met abed already this day in the quest for their son, so it was of little import if she did not encounter him.

So reason informed her, but still she found herself seeking a glimpse of his merry smile and glancing up whenever the portal to the bailey was opened.

Surely she could not miss her handsome husband so soon after their nuptials, so soon after they had met? Surely she had not been so beguiled by a man’s charm that she had forgotten her own determination to rely on no one?

All the same, it was only after every other soul in Kinfairlie had retired that Eleanor climbed the stairs to the laird’s chamber. The chamber was cold and lonely without the prospect of hearing Alexander’s chuckle, though Anthony had kindled blazes in no less than three braziers. Eleanor shed her garb and climbed into the great cold bed, listening, listening long into the night.

* * *

An afternoon, a night and a morning without her husband’s presence told Eleanor the truth. She had been judged and found guilty of trying to poison him, even by this man reputed to be just. Eleanor was disappointed, though she called herself a fool for desiring more of him.

That she would never have expected more from a spouse before meeting Alexander, that he had tainted her thoughts so quickly as this, was nigh too frightening to contemplate.

What else had he changed?

Her expectations abed, to be sure. Eleanor knew that she would never again be able to lie meekly beneath a man laboring for his own pleasure, counting the folds in the draperies upon the bed until he finished his deed.

She descended to the hall, for there were guests departing this day and she would not fail in her duties. Her heart skipped at the first sight of her spouse, who waited at the base of the stairs for her. Eleanor greedily devoured the sight of him, that his hair was yet damp against his collar, that he had changed his chemise. He wore a dark tabard and chausses, as was his custom, the orb of Kinfairlie’s heraldic device fairly glowing against the dark wool of his tabard. His tall boots gleamed and a fur-lined cloak hung over his shoulders.

He looked up at her and she halted on the stairs. She noted that his color was less than it had been, that there were shadows beneath his eyes, and she dared to hope that he too had slept poorly alone. Alexander’s grim countenance gave no encouragement to that though, and Eleanor feared that the awe with which he had first regarded her was banished forevermore.

She was heartsick at the change in her husband, for he was merry no longer. It was worse to know that her own history was responsible. It helped little that she tingled in his very presence, that she yearned to touch him boldly again, that she wanted nothing more than his heat within her.

That was untrue. Eleanor desired Alexander’s smile more than his affection abed. And she wanted to see the glimmer of starlight in his eyes.

But Alexander had no smile for her. He took her hand at the foot of the stairs and placed it within his elbow, his manners perfect though his manner was cold.

“I trust all is well at the sheriff’s abode,” Eleanor said, feeling the need to exchange some words with him.

“Well enough,” he acknowledged, and she ached for a jest or a wink from this formerly teasing man.

“I heard that you shared a cup with him last evening.”

“It is custom.”

Eleanor walked beside her spouse, wondering whether she imagined that whispers flew through the gathered company. Anna, the ostler’s daughter, smirked at her, as if only biding her time before she claimed the laird’s attention. Alexander did not spare Eleanor the slightest glance.

To be fair, he had defended her often, more than any other man had ever done. To be unfair, that only made the injustice of his current restraint sting all the more.

They reached the bailey, where the parties destined for Blackleith and Caerwyn waited. The horses were restless, all riders dressed both somberly and warmly.

Alexander spared a glance for the sky and Eleanor followed his gaze. It was overcast, a winter sky, but not so dark that rain or snow would fall soon. The wind was light, tinged with the salt of the sea.

She liked that Alexander was concerned for the welfare of his guests and his sisters, even when they left his hall. He was protective of those he believed himself obliged to protect, or perhaps he was protective of those who held his affections.

Eleanor yearned fiercely to be in their company.

Anthony brought the stirrup cup, a massive chalice cast in bronze and brimming with wine. He handed it to Eleanor, which confirmed her place in the household to all. He also smiled at her, the only person to do so, and Eleanor found herself grateful for his kindness. She realized then that the censure she felt from Alexander’s household was a protectiveness of the laird by his vassals and tenants.

And its root was the same: these people held Alexander in affection and would not suffer any threat to his health. For that, she could scarce blame them.

Eleanor sipped of the cup’s contents first, as was proper, and a familiar sweet scent assailed her. A hundred memories were conjured by the smell, each and every one of them prompting her tears. Eleanor had offered the stirrup cup for her father so many times when he rode to battle, and feared so many times that he would not return and she would be left even more alone than already she was. The scent recalled too the fear of her own departures, her summons to unknown men at altars far away.

The scent was bitter, or at least the memories it summoned were so.

Eleanor took a deep breath, banishing her past, and smiled for the castellan. “You have flavored it with sweet woodruff,” she said graciously and he nodded. “That is the perfect touch for sending travelers upon their way, for its scent makes a heart merry.” It was a lie in her case, though she had oft heard others say as much.

Anthony did not question her assessment. Indeed, the tips of the castellan’s ears turned slightly pink as if he was flustered by her praise. “I thank you, my lady. I merely do my best.”

Eleanor turned and offered the cup to Alexander. He watched her as she lifted it to his lips, his gaze so bright that she knew he had not missed her response.

“Does it make you merry?” he asked quietly.

Eleanor shook her head ever so slightly, startled yet again by his perceptiveness. “Departures cannot be merry for those left behind,” she responded, her words as soft as his had been.

She pivoted before Alexander could speak and offered the cup to Rhys. That man hesitated ever so slightly before he accepted the chalice.

“Rhys!” Madeline chided in an undertone.

“Eleanor is my lady wife,” Alexander said, his words cold. “And I will thank you to show her the respect due to her in our abode.”

Madeline caught her breath and looked between the men, but Rhys took the cup. Eleanor knew she was not the only one who noted how his eyes had narrowed, no less how he sniffed the cup’s contents before he sipped of it.

Eleanor looked away from his cool gaze, her heart thumping in her chest. Had Alexander defended her because he knew the truth? Had it been only duty that had kept him from her side? Or did he insist simply upon courtesy being shown where it was due?

She did not know and she was surprised to find herself fearful of the truth. She looked in every direction save that of her husband, for she feared to find disapproval in his eyes, and thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the jostling company. It was a face she had not expected to see again.

Moira? Moira was here?

Moira’s presence would be heaven-sent in this moment!

Eleanor peered avidly into the milling company, seeking another glimpse of her faithful maid. But there were only the faces of strangers, any one of whom could have been confused for Moira with a momentary glimpse.

It was undoubtedly the sweet woodruff, the scent of memory, that conjured a familiar sight as well. Moira, after all, had oft been fast at her side when Eleanor had sipped of such a cup. But now Moira was safely at Tivotdale, where Eleanor had left her, where she would be fed and housed and would continue to serve. There was no cause to worry for a soul so competent as Moira.

Those tears mustered in Eleanor’s eyes again, though she tried to blink them away. The company stood in awkward silence as Rhys passed the cup to his lady wife.

Rhys’ steed nuzzled Eleanor’s shoulder and in her loneliness she turned away from Rhys’ wary perusal to offer her hand to the horse. The destrier nuzzled her palm and she smiled at the softness of its nose.

“My every treasure for an apple,” she murmured, and looked up to find Madeline smiling at her. Madeline sipped of the cup’s contents without hesitation, ignoring her husband’s slight frown. Rhys’ horse nibbled at Eleanor’s hair to regain her attention and she smiled despite herself.

She passed the cup then to Erik and Vivienne in turn, stroking the noses of their horses as well. It had always soothed her to be with horses and she recalled how often she had ridden simply to find escape from her situation.

Inevitably, she recalled that horrific incident in Millard’s abode, and bile rose in her throat. She turned abruptly away from Vivienne and carried the cup back to Alexander, the pain of betrayal as raw as when it had been new.

Alexander took the chalice, then held it to her lips. “Who has left you so oft that you are yet saddened?” he asked when the wine touched her lips and she could not step away.

“It would quicker to recount those who have not abandoned me,” she said, then Father Malachy called his blessing. She sensed that her husband would have asked her more, but he had no chance to do so.

And truly, she was in no mood to protect her secrets from his scrutiny. A mere three days she had known him and that was little enough to prompt her to trust him fully. Had she lost her wits? Millard had been kind for a year!

“Ride in haste and fair weather!” Alexander cried, holding the cup high. “And return to us soon, in good health!”

“Amen!” the company cried, then the men whistled to their parties. Two dozen horses of varying hues of brown turned, their tails flicking, and cantered from the bailey. Rhys and Madeline led one party, Erik and Vivienne the other, each followed by squires and maids and palfreys loaded with trunks.

Erik’s two little girls rode with their parents, the eldest cosseted in Erik’s lap, the youngest with Vivienne. They waved with such vigor that they might have fallen from the saddles had their parents not held them so fast. On another day, the sight of their enthusiasm might have made Eleanor smile.

Both parties passed through the cluster of villagers, Madeline and Vivienne accepting their good wishes, then they passed through the old walls. The sisters blew kisses to each other, then to the party before Kinfairlie’s doors. Alexander waved, as did his younger sisters who also shouted farewells. The group divided into two groups, one headed north and one south, and the horses broke into a thundering run.

Kinfairlie’s household stood before that keep’s portal until the last echo of hoof beats had faded, then Alexander offered Eleanor his hand once more. His gesture was no more than one of courtesy, she could see, for caution still lurked in his eyes, but he was the husband she had and the husband she had chosen.

It was her duty to regain his trust. Eleanor knew that there were matters well worth the battle to win them and she believed that Alexander’s trust was one of them. She knew that she was not without the burden of her past, and she knew it was not in her nature to trust readily.

But she was prepared to try to make a good marriage of this, even to try to create one so wondrous as the one Alexander said he sought.

Further, Eleanor knew how best to begin in seeking such a match. There was one matter, at least, that was simple between herself and Alexander, and confidences were more readily exchanged abed and in privacy.

Feeling uncommonly bold but knowing that all was at stake, Eleanor lifted Alexander’s hand and kissed his knuckles, knowing that she did not imagine how he caught his breath. It was encouraging to have that slight sign that he thought her to be possessed of some allure.

“I missed you last night, my lord,” she murmured for his ears alone and Alexander met her gaze. “The bed was cold without your presence.”

Alexander’s eyes, to her dismay, narrowed. “Then perhaps you should have Anthony light another brazier for you this night,” he said, his tone so even that they might have been discussing the weather, not his absence from her bed. “I have duties through the new year to attend. I trust that you will find some matter to occupy you in these days.”

With no more than that, he left her. He turned crisply away, summoning Anthony and one of his squires as he strode through Kinfairlie’s hall as Eleanor yearned after him.

And true to his word, Alexander did not return to the hall that night.

* * *

Alexander did not savor the choice he had made, though he knew that a bitter deed oft yielded results.

That did not make the enduring of it easier.

Even the weather conspired against him and his determination to check the boundaries of Kinfairlie. It began to rain in cold steady sheets shortly after his party left the hall and the wind from the sea turned bitter. The snow melted into a churning mess of mud and ice that made their journey even more onerous than it would have been otherwise.

The sole comfort in all of this was that he had not ridden his destrier, but chosen a smaller palfrey instead. Alexander knew that Uriel would have protested such indignity as this weather, and the last censure he had need of in these times was one from the ostler over risking the health of a vigorous and costly steed.

The squires accompanying him did not chatter, as was their custom, nor did the bailiff from the village. The small party checked the western and southern boundaries, some hearty villagers accompanying the party when it was closest to the village. A few mothers taught their young children the marks of the village perimeter in the old way, by boxing the child’s ears when he or she reached the village boundary, the better that the line might be recalled.

The party took shelter that night at the sheriff’s abode and Alexander felt the burden of exclusively male companionship. The sheriff was unwed, though hospitable. He laid a simple board, though one that Alexander complimented for its generosity. The sheriff’s home seemed bereft of comfort to Alexander, who yearned for his own hall. Indeed, he longed for more than the comfort of his own bed and the heat of his own hearth and the sound of his sisters engaged in some petty argument.

He longed for the flash of his wife’s eyes, for the sparkle of her wit, for the sweetness of her kisses abed. Worse, Alexander knew that the lady would have welcomed his embrace again, had he been so resolute as to remain at home.

But he sought honesty, and he had noted that Eleanor surrendered details about her history only when she felt obliged to do so. It was her nature to hold her secrets close, and given what she had endured—or what Alexander knew of what she had endured—she had good reason for that. He was impatient, though, and was prepared to compel her to tell him more of her past.

He did not put credence in Rhys’ fears, to be sure, but the fact was that Eleanor wished to be wed to him, though Alexander did not know why. She had agreed to wed him on short notice, had cut her thumb to force his proposal, had ensured that their match was not only consummated when he threatened to have it annulled. She admitted only that she wished for a son, though Alexander did not see why she had chosen him to grant her that child.

After all, the lady had no belief in the notion of love between man and wife. Much as it galled Alexander to admit it, she could not be smitten with him.

So why had she chosen him?

He did not know, but he did know that she surrendered tales when she believed their marriage to be in jeopardy. So, he left her at Kinfairlie, for he could not linger in her presence and feign anger with her for no reason. He still felt a knave for his choice, but Alexander was determined to oust his lady’s secrets.

For he did believe in love, and further, he guessed that Eleanor could capture his heart fully. He needed to know for certain, however, that she was worthy of his trust. Alexander only hoped that this short interval bore fruit, for he knew not what else to do.

For he feared that he would not have to spend much more time in his lady’s presence, witnessing her strength and her ardor and her intellect, to lose his own heart in truth.

* * *

On that same night that Alexander tossed and turned in the sheriff’s abode and Eleanor paced the solar floor, Elizabeth dreamed a familiar dream. She tossed and turned in her sleep, but the progress of the dream was relentless. She did not want to review her part in ensuring Rosamunde’s demise, but the demons of the night left her no choice. Elizabeth stirred, fighting against slumber, but to no avail.

She is with her siblings in a tavern and concern sits among their company at the board. The dream is so vivid, she might be there again. They ride in pursuit of Madeline and Rhys, and Elizabeth tastes again her exhaustion, her fear, Alexander’s frustration. She watches herself save the fairy Darg from that spriggan’s own affection for ale. She could not have chosen differently, she could not have let the fairy drown, but the fact is clear.

Once she saved the spriggan’s life.

The dream shifts with merciless predictability. She knows this dream and she loathes it, but it holds her fast in its clutches yet again. Elizabeth sits in the upper chamber of Ravensmuir with Vivienne. Time has passed: her hair is longer and Vivienne is more woman than she was months earlier in the tavern. Again, Darg’s affection for ale betrays the fairy, and again Elizabeth sees the spriggan saved from certain demise. Again, she could have made no other choice; again, she sees the import of her own deed.

For twice she has saved the fairy’s life.

The dream changes yet again and Elizabeth knows this to be the worst of it. She fights to awaken, but cannot. She would scream in protest but the dream condemns her to silence. She is in the labyrinth beneath Ravensmuir. She sees her aunt Rosamunde and her heart aches that she could prevented that woman’s demise. And all unfolds precisely as it did so many months ago. Darg and Rosamunde fight and in the ensuing struggle and confusion, the spriggan is nigh forgotten in the cold water that flows in the chasms of the labyrinth.

But Elizabeth notes Darg’s absence. Elizabeth insists upon saving the spriggan. Elizabeth risks her own life to retrieve Darg.

Thrice she had saved the spriggan’s life. Three times Elizabeth had had the chance to turn away, three times she could have let the admittedly malicious spriggan die. But because she did not look away, Darg survived.

As did the spriggan’s hatred for Rosamunde.

And then, just when she expected to awaken, Elizabeth’s dream took a new twist.

Elizabeth is the labyrinth of Ravensmuir, the labyrinth that cannot be entered any longer for it has fallen to ruins. She is crawling through the rubble and she is calling for her lost aunt. Elizabeth feels the dampness of tears upon her own cheeks, she feels the heat cast by the single flickering flame of her lantern.

She knows somehow that she is in the great cavern that once marked the lowest point of the labyrinth, the chamber that had once had a high ceiling carved from the stone. From here, one could climb to the keep or walk to the hidden cove that led to the sea, the cove where a small boat could be hidden. She does not know how she knows as much, for there is only rubble and loose stone all around her and a fearsome shadow over her head.

She tastes her own bile, fearing that she has been summoned to the site of Rosamunde’s demise. Indeed, she spies something in the rubble, something that could be the toe of a black leather boot.

Elizabeth prays, but she crawls closer, seemingly unable to do otherwise. Just as she reached the boot—for that is what it is—a gust of wind extinguishes the flame of her lantern.

Elizabeth is plunged into darkness and her heart fairly stops in terror. Is she destined to die in the labyrinth as well? How will she climb to safety? How will she make her way out of the rubble without a light?

The stone begins to rumble overhead. It is shifting. Elizabeth gasps in terror. The first loose stone strikes her shoulder and she bellows in fear.

The rock begins to fall in earnest. She scrambles in the direction she thinks she has come, but her fingers land upon the leather of that boot toe. She feels a scream gathering in her throat, for she guesses that there is the foot of a corpse within that boot. She will go mad in Ravensmuir’s caverns and no one will know of her fate. The scream begins to tear loose of her throat.

Then a light appears. The light is golden and welcoming, it seems to fill a portal that Elizabeth does not recall seeing before. And framed in that portal is a familiar silhouette, a woman whose very presence makes Elizabeth gasp in astonishment.

“Hasten yourself, child,” Rosamunde says with some urgency. “We have not all the day and all the night to see this resolved. Hurry! Come to me immediately!”

Then all turned black.

Elizabeth awakened, a cold sweat on her back and tears upon her cheeks. The dream named the root of it: by not letting the Fates claim the spriggan each time they tried to do so, by interfering in the order of things, Elizabeth herself was responsible for Rosamunde’s demise.

It was her fault that Rosamunde was dead, for it was her fault that Rosamunde had been compelled to return to Ravensmuir to sate the fairy’s greed, her fault that Rosamunde had been within Ravensmuir’s labyrinths when they finally collapsed. Elizabeth wept, for it was bitter that she, who loved Rosamunde so well, should have been the one responsible for that woman’s death.

All the same, she had done what she had to do, for she could not have turned aside while any creature was in danger. In so doing, she had condemned the one person she loved more than any other.

Her sisters slept soundly, the echo of their even breathing infuriating their youngest sibling. What sweet dreams did they savor? Why was she be tormented by this fearsome dream, nigh every night? As Elizabeth laid there, brooding and bitter, she recalled the last, new part of her dream. She sat up, so sudden was her understanding.

She was being summoned. She did not know what her dream of Rosamunde meant, but she knew where she must go to find out.

Ravensmuir.

Alexander, of course, would never permit her to undertake such folly, and Elizabeth did not imagine that Eleanor would see her side in this endeavor either.

Which only meant that Elizabeth had need of a scheme.

Chapter Nine

The sun rose with a reluctance that echoed Alexander’s own uncertainties in returning to his hall. The sea was like silvered glass that morning, tranquil as Alexander was not, and the sky was clearing. There was fog along the shoreline, clustered in the nooks of the coast, but Alexander found himself studying the distant waves, gilded as they were with the first light of the sun. His party galloped along the coast, checking the boundary markers along this last stretch of Kinfairlie’s borders.

The sea had always fascinated Alexander and he realized now that the root of his fascination was its changeability. Did his fascination with his enigmatic wife have a similar root?

Was his fascination as treacherous? The sea, after all, had shown its capriciousness in claiming the lives of both of his parents a year ago. Did Eleanor have a similar fate in scheme for him? Or was the lady falsely maligned?

Their duty completed before the sun rose high, the party turned back to Kinfairlie as one. The horses began to canter, needing no encouragement to return to the comfort of Kinfairlie’s stables. Alexander heard hoof beats and thought for a moment that the passing of his own party was made greater by echoes on the walls of the homes in the village.

But no. Destriers approached. Alexander knew this with the certainty of one raised to be familiar with horses of all kinds. And they were numerous, so numerous that he feared the intent of their riders. Not for the first time, Alexander regretted that Kinfairlie’s curtain wall had never been rebuilt, no less that he had no coin with which to have it rebuilt now.

“Who rides to Kinfairlie?” Alexander shouted as he rode into his own bailey, noting that his sentinels peered into the distance. They stood on what high points there were, the rubble of the ancient wall included, and more than one had his bow at the ready.

“Praise be!” one sentinel shouted in apparent relief. “The Laird of Ravensmuir arrives!”

“Praise be, indeed,” Alexander said with a smile of relief, then made his way to greet his younger brother.

It was Malcolm, against all expectation. What a blessing that his brother had come home to celebrate Christmas! Alexander had feared that Malcolm’s duties would preclude such a journey this year, though truly Ravensmuir was not far. He waved an enthusiastic greeting.

Then Alexander’s eyes narrowed at the size of Malcolm’s company and his arm stilled. Something was amiss.

A veritable herd of horses formed the arriving party, though not all of them bore riders. Each and every one was a glossy steed of Ravensmuir’s breeding, each one as black as the night, each one tall and proud. They stepped high and arched their necks, these beasts who had no equal in Christendom, their dark manes flowing, their nostrils flaring.

Alexander counted all eight of the destriers currently siring in Ravensmuir’s stables, as well as the two dozen mares, which were none of them much smaller than the stallions. Seven foals had been born this year, he knew this from Malcolm’s missives, and all seven were in this company.

With dismay, he realized that the riders accompanying Malcolm were his brother’s household staff, his ostlers and squires.

They would all need to eat. This was Alexander’s first thought and his second was a mental review of his inventories. Alexander felt cursed again by the realities of his circumstance. Every joy that came to him had to be tempered these days, it seemed.

Malcolm halted his steed before Alexander, dismounted, doffed his gloves as Alexander did the same. Malcolm removed his helm, revealing the ebony of his hair so like Alexander’s own, and his expression was uncommonly solemn.

“What is amiss?” Alexander said by way of greeting. He guessed that there was some issue at import behind Malcolm’s arrival, no less with the fact that his brother was accompanied by his entire household.

Malcolm gripped Alexander’s proffered hand then met his gaze steadily. “The ravens left.”

Alexander’s heart sank. It could not be so! One glance at Malcolm told him that it was the truth, but still he felt obliged to argue the matter. “But they never leave Ravensmuir. You know that as well as I.”

“Nonetheless, they have left.”

“Surely they will return shortly, and but make a sojourn away.” Alexander forced a smile. “Who can say what birds scheme? Doubtless you lose faith too soon.”

Malcolm’s lips set. “They never leave for even a day, you know as much. They have been gone this past week.”

“But...”

Malcolm interrupted him, his manner severe. “They took flight as one, dozens of them, and flew east with nary a cry. They waited for me to witness this departure, I know it well.”

“But that is madness.”

“They waited for me to leave the stables, that I would see their departure. They waited to ensure that I knew the import of their choice.”

Alexander laid a hand upon his brother’s shoulder. He could understand Malcolm’s bitterness. It was said that the presence of the birds at Ravensmuir endorsed the laird in power, so their absence could not be interpreted in many ways.

The Lammergeier siblings had been taught the tale of Ravensmuir’s ravens from the cradle, though Alexander had always thought it whimsy. So, he had been convinced, had Malcolm, for Malcolm had always had even less patience with fanciful tales.

Alexander considered the size of the watchful company with some consternation, wondering how he would feed all of these souls for the remainder of the winter. “I think you put too much credence in this old tale,” he said, hoping to reassure his brother.

“How can it be interpreted otherwise?” Malcolm demanded with anger. “Ravensmuir has crumbled to rubble, its labyrinth collapsed and the keep fallen atop the ruins. A rabbit can scarce work its way into the old hall, so collapsed is the structure. The Laird himself is dead, lost in those very caverns, his body is not recovered, and his heir is yet untested. The ravens left, as the old portent recounts, because there is no true laird at Ravensmuir.”

“It is but a tale, Malcolm.”

“It is an ancient tale and I see now that it is a true one. The ravens do not find me worthy, thus they have abandoned me.” Malcolm sighed and scowled into the distance, his voice softening. “I would prefer to discount it, Alexander. I would prefer to find no merit in old portents, but this one cannot be evaded. The birds merely echo my own convictions. I am ill-prepared for this inheritance. It is less than a single year since Uncle Tynan welcomed me to his household and though I learned much beneath his tutelage, that is but a fraction of what I need to know to make any good of Ravensmuir, especially the ruin it has become.”

Alexander considered the company, virtually all men, and found them looking as uncertain as their suzerain. “What do you mean to do?”

Malcolm glanced back to those who followed them. “We have been living in the stables since the keep’s collapse, Alexander. Though these men have served me well, it is unfitting that they abide in such circumstance and with such uncertainty of their future.” He met Alexander’s gaze anew. “I come to ask you to take both men and steeds beneath your care at Kinfairlie. Indeed, I come to entreat you to do as much. I surrender my all to you, for you clearly are better prepared to administer a holding.”

“But Kinfairlie has always looked to Ravensmuir as its suzerain.”

“I would make you suzerain of both.”

Alexander’s chest tightened to the point that he could scarce breathe. “And what of you?”

Malcolm straightened. “I mean to seek my fortune.” He heaved a sigh. “And perhaps in time, I will show myself worthy of assuming the burden of Ravensmuir again, if you see so fit as to grant it to me.”

Alexander was tempted to tell his brother of the truth of Kinfairlie, but he feared that it would be too much for Malcolm to know that both holdings were in some jeopardy. “But you are already Laird of Ravensmuir, Malcolm. Is that title not sufficient for you? Think before you surrender your greatest prize.”

Malcolm almost smiled, looking much older than his twenty summers. “As Ravensmuir stands, no, being its laird is not sufficient for me. I can do nothing for my holding but watch it crumble to oblivion. Our legacy deserves better, Alexander, and I intend to find the means to make Ravensmuir glorious again. In the meantime, I leave its administration in capable hands.”

Alexander did not know what to say. Not only did he believe himself less than capable of succeeding in this feat, but Ravensmuir was more of a liability than an asset. It possessed no village and no fields, thus had no tithes. Its treasury had once been refilled by the trading of religious relics, but now those relics had all been sold and removed. Ravensmuir was of greater import as a legacy: it stood as a keep and piece of land to be defended for the sake of family history, but one that had little of merit its own to offer.

Especially to a laird already destitute.

Malcolm laid a hand upon Alexander’s shoulder, apparently misunderstanding the reasons for his brother’s reluctance to accept Ravensmuir. “Do not fear for me, Alexander. I will find the way somehow, I will return to rebuild our inheritance, and we will both know my feat to be done when the ravens land in Ravensmuir’s bailey once more.”

Alexander’s voice rose in frustration. “Listen to yourself, Malcolm. You cannot choose your course based upon the doings of birds!”

Malcolm sobered and his gaze was steely. “I can and I do, for the ravens of Ravensmuir are no mere birds. You should know that as well as I do.”

There was something uncanny about his brother’s assertion, and Alexander regarded Malcolm with skepticism. “Surely you did not learn to speak with them, as it is said the Lairds of Ravensmuir can do?”

Malcolm averted his face. “Uncle Tynan taught me much, but there is still more to learn. Will you accept Ravensmuir’s seal or no?”

Alexander cursed, shoved his hand through his hair, and paced. Four dozen more men to feed. Three dozen massive, hungry horses. Miles of territory to defend, with no more coin in his coffers. His heart sank at the hope in the expressions of Malcolm’s company.

But what else could he do?

“I will hold it in trust for you, no more and no less,” he said with resolve. “Uncle Tynan chose you as his heir and I would stand by his choice, whether you have faith in it or not.”

“Will you stable the horses, as well? You are welcome to breed them in my absence, so long as you ensure that they are not poorly treated. They, too, are part of our legacy.”

“My stable is humble, but it is yours,” Alexander said with resignation. “I know not how they will be fed, for we have not made provision for such a number of horses for the winter, but...”

“There is hay and straw at Ravensmuir,” Malcolm interrupted firmly. “I spent the last of Ravensmuir’s coin upon it, and it is yours, of course, for you are now laird.” He dug in his purse, then put the seal of Ravensmuir in Alexander’s hand. It seemed more weighty than Alexander might have expected.

“I thank you,” Malcolm said, seemingly relieved as soon as its burden passed from his grasp. His words turned hoarse. “I knew that you would aid me, Alexander. You were always resourceful, despite your many jests, and always would give assistance where it was most needed.”

“You must remain until Epiphany at least, for you cannot journey through the holy days.” He managed to summon a smile of encouragement for his brother. “We might well find a solution for your woes between ourselves by that time.”

Malcolm’s smile turned rueful. “I doubt it, Alexander, though I welcome the prospect.” He heaved a sigh, his expression a perfect echo of what Alexander’s own mood had been for much of this past year. “In truth, I do not know where I should ride, I know only that I cannot remain.” His smile broadened. “Perhaps I will find an heiress to wed.”

“Perhaps you will find a sorceress to wed,” Alexander muttered, for he doubted that any woman’s dowry could see both of these keeps rebuilt. His brother chuckled. “Come, break your fast. A problem always looks less formidable when one’s belly is full.”

Malcolm agreed with this, and Alexander commanded the men to take the steeds to the stable. He summoned his own ostler and ensured that that man’s authority was clear to Malcolm’s ostler, though it was apparent that the men would consult each other. The pair set immediately to assessing stables and steeds, and organizing the party that would return with wagons for Ravensmuir’s stores.

Alexander looked at the seal, so burdened with his family’s history, as Malcolm led his own stallion into the stables. He turned the seal, letting the early light play upon it, acknowledging his mixed feelings. On the one hand, it would be an honor to wield this seal, even for a short time. On the other, Ravensmuir could only sweep the last vestige of silver dust from his treasury.

He glanced skyward, perhaps hoping for divine aid, and spied movement at the window of the solar. He looked again and saw that it was Eleanor, her unbound hair stirring in the wind while she stood motionless. She watched him as he watched her and he felt a prickle of awareness beneath her gaze.

He had the curious sense that she knew what he held, that she knew what had just occurred, though she could not possibly have heard their words. And what would she make of these tidings? She began to lean out the window, as if she would hail him or congratulate him over adding to his holdings.

Alexander closed his fist over the seal and pushed it into his purse. It might be folly, but holding all of his family’s legacy made him doubly determined to survive whatever intent the lady might have for him.

The simplest solution, he realized with sudden vigor, had been his first impulse. He had to win her affection in truth, for no woman would be anxious to lose the man who held her heart.

By any reckoning, he had at least nine months to so, for it would take nine months for any son to show himself—and his gender—to the world.

Such a feat still meant that Alexander had to unveil Eleanor’s many secrets first. It was fortunate indeed that he was cursed stubborn, or so his sisters had oft maintained. This was one challenge that Alexander meant to win. He spared his wife a last glance, noting that she withdrew into their chamber, then strode to the hall.

He had need of a fortifying meal to face the challenge this lady presented.

* * *

Horses!

Eleanor awakened to the thunder of hoof beats. She had fallen asleep atop the bed linens, still in her garb from the day before. At the sound of horses, she was on her feet and at the window. She caught her breath as the most magnificent beasts she had ever seen galloped into Kinfairlie’s bailey. They were exquisite creatures, each of them with a coat of gleaming black so dark it might have been unnatural.

She had never seen their like, and Eleanor had seen many steeds. Indeed, she loved horses so that her first urge was to run to the stables to greet these beasts. They were massive but gracefully wrought, their nostrils flared and their necks arched proudly. Their tails and manes were long and silky, and as dark as ebony. They stamped with regal impatience when they were halted, as if they would have run clear to Jerusalem given their head.

And there were so many of them. Eleanor leaned against the wall beside the window, her knees weak with the desire to ride one of these splendid beasts. She dared not leave the window, barely dared to blink, so anxious was she to feast upon the sight of them.

She noted belatedly that Alexander stood before them, his hair nigh as dark as the coats of the sleek steeds. The man who spoke with him shared his coloring and his height. They seemed to be arguing. Were they friends or family? She could not hear a word they said, and her gaze flicked between the horses and her husband.

Something was resolved, for both horses and guest turned toward the stables. Alexander glanced up and though her impulse was to hide herself from view, Eleanor held her ground. Her heart fluttered with the hope that he would come to her, but Alexander turned away, his silent dismissal sending Eleanor’s heart plummeting to her toes.

But she was no frail maiden who would hide in her chambers. If Alexander would not come to her, then she would go to him.

* * *

Malcolm joined Alexander in the hall, just as it began to bustle. Sentries and mercenaries broke their fast at the tables, their manner more subdued than was typical. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth, for the Yule log was scarce consumed. The smell of fresh bread filled the hall and one could hear singing in the kitchens. There was ale, though it was thin, and fresh strewing herbs upon the floor.

“Kinfairlie looks different,” Malcolm said with a frown. “What has changed?”

“I married on Christmas Day,” Alexander said with all the insouciance he could muster. His brother regarded him in shock. “And my lady wife takes the household beneath her command.”

“You wed?” Malcolm sputtered. “Who? How? When?” He put his cup down heavily on the board. “This very week?”

“It is a shame you did not come sooner,” Alexander mused, enjoying his brother’s astonishment. “For Madeline and Rhys were here for Christmas Eve, as were Vivienne and Erik.”

“Wait a moment. Madeline and Vivienne were here, with the husbands you arranged for them to wed without their agreement.” A suspicious light dawned in Malcolm’s eyes. “And they departed when, precisely?”

“Yesterday,” Alexander admitted.

“And you were wed while they were resident?”

“As I said.”

Malcolm began to laugh. “That was a hasty courtship, brother mine,” he said, his eyes dancing. “When last we spoke, you had no intent to wed, nor were you courting any maiden’s affections.”

“I met the lady on the Eve of Christmas...”

“The day before your nuptials! When Madeline and Vivienne were both present in this hall. I smell retaliation, Alexander!”

“...though that does not change the measure of my admiration for her.”

“Admit the truth,” Malcolm insisted, his manner gleeful. “Madeline and Vivienne avenged themselves upon you.”

Alexander nodded. “That is not to say that matters will not come aright in the end, as both of them have learned.”

Malcolm sipped his ale, his gaze knowing. “The match is amiable, then?”

“Of course.” Alexander had no desire to confess his misgivings to his brother, for any detail he admitted to one sibling would be immediately shared with all the others. He had protected them all from the truth of Kinfairlie’s finances for so long that it was instinctive to protect them from other harsh truths. “In fact, Eleanor is most anxious to conceive a son.”

“Truly?” Malcolm chewed his bread as he considered this detail. He studied Alexander as if he suspected that his brother told but half of the tale. “An amorous wife is not such a terrible fate. I salute you, Alexander, for it seems that all comes aright for you, even when our sisters scheme against you. That is a feat!”

“I do not know that all proceeds as well as that...”

“You are modest! Kinfairlie is secure in your hands and at peace, you have a hall full of loyal men, a stable full of fine steeds, two sisters married well and your own wife desirous of an heir.” There was no bitterness in Malcolm’s tone, for his nature had never been tinged with avarice, but Alexander felt a desire to set matters straight.

He leaned an elbow the table, lowering his voice in confidence. “I tell you one matter that does not go aright with ease,” he said and Malcolm leaned closer. Alexander grimaced. “In truth, I forget much of courting a lady’s favor. Have you any counsel for me?”

Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Surely you jest.”

“Surely not.”

“You courted every maiden from here to London, and not without success!”

Alexander shook his head in mock dismay. “It is different to flirt with the affections of maidens than to foster love in the heart of one’s wife.”

“Ah, so for once in your days, you wish for more than mere pleasure abed.” Malcolm grinned, his own woes forgotten. “Are you smitten, brother mine?”

Alexander only smiled.

Malcolm nodded, apparently satisfied. “I shall tell you the sole thing I know about the courtship of women, for my success in such endeavors could never begin to match your own,” he said. “This counsel comes from Uncle Tynan, and I am not certain that he meant to confide it in me. He might merely have been speaking his thoughts aloud.”

This was no tempting prospect, in Alexander’s view, for Tynan had died unwed after rejecting the affection offered wholeheartedly by Rosamunde. “Indeed?”

Malcolm frowned. “He said that it is of import to have gifts to bestow upon a lady while courting her. He said he feared that he and Rosamunde had never found happiness together because there was nothing he could offer to her that she did not already possess.”

“He could have surrendered his love to her,” Alexander noted. “For she could not have had that otherwise.”

Malcolm ignored this. “I think he believed that gifts soften a woman’s heart and he disliked that Rosamunde had such wealth of her own. He only gave her the silver ring that our grandfather had bestowed upon his own bride.”

“And Rosamunde gave it back.”

Malcolm nodded. “He wore it all the time after she left his side, and he would stare at it every night in silence. I think he knew that he had forsaken his opportunity, and I think he believed that the one gift he had given her had not been the right one.”

Alexander stared into his cup and considered this. There might be wisdom in it, after all. Would the right gift given to Eleanor in the right moment dissolve her determination to be rid of him? Could he prove himself to be a spouse worth the keeping?

Eleanor had an affection for horses, of that Alexander was certain. He recalled the admiration in her eyes when she had stroked the steeds of the departing parties the day before. Her features had lit as seldom they did. He could envision Eleanor upon one of the black horses of Ravensmuir, and recalled all too well how she had walked from Ewen’s abode. Perhaps she had left a favored steed behind, being uncertain of her destination. Perhaps Ewen had denied her a steed of her own.

And so, what better way to persuade her that Alexander courted her affection? Further, if he gave her the means to flee him, would that not show that he had no desire to imprison her against her will? Might that not show him better than her former spouses?

A man could only try.

He fixed Malcolm with a bright gaze. “Do you fully surrender Ravensmuir’s steeds unto me?”

“Of course. I know that you will see them well treated and that you know as much of breeding as do I. You lived at Ravensmuir for years, after all, while Uncle Tynan trained you for knighthood.”

“Then I think I shall choose a mare for my lady wife,” Alexander said, pushing to his feet with resolve.

“What a splendid wedding gift!” Malcolm agreed. “I will aid you in the choosing, for I know the nature of each horse. We can make a match to her own nature.”

But the men would not have to do as much in the lady’s absence. Just as they rose from the board with purpose, Alexander saw Eleanor at the foot of the stairs. She seemed hesitant to approach him, and he cursed himself for creating that hesitation.

He turned and smiled, offering his hand. “Eleanor, come and meet my brother, Malcolm.”

* * *

Eleanor crossed the hall floor with deliberate steps, taking the opportunity to study this new arrival. So, this was one of the brothers who would welcome the seal of Kinfairlie should Alexander die without an heir. He was younger than her husband, but not by much. They shared the same ebony hair and muscled build, though Malcolm had green eyes. They were far less attractive, to Eleanor’s thinking, than eyes of sparkling blue.

Eleanor smiled politely even as she resolved that Malcolm would never win her husband’s holding. It would pass to their son, of that she meant to be certain.

They exchanged greetings, then Malcolm smiled at Eleanor. “Do you ride often, then?” he asked and she had the sense that she had stepped into the midst of a conversation.

“Of course I was taught to ride, all noblewomen are,” she said, sparing a glance to Alexander. He looked as innocent as an angel, a most uncommon expression for him, and one that made her wonder at his intent. “Why do you ask?”

“I have asked Alexander to ensure the care of the horses from my stable in my absence, and he proposes to grant you one as a wedding gift.”

Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face at the prospect. She could not endure that horror again!

She felt her mouth work for a moment before she managed to make a sound. “I have no need of a steed of my own,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Though I thank you for the thought.”

“It is more than a thought,” Alexander said, claiming her elbow. “It is a deed to be done. Come along and aid in the choosing.”

“No!” Eleanor cried with such vigor that the entire household turned to look. “I beg of you, no. I have no desire for a horse.” Her words fell with uncharacteristic haste, in her fear that the past was to be repeated. “I am content to walk, truly.”

Alexander bent toward her, his eyes gleaming. “Eleanor, you make little sense in this,” he said in that quiet but firm tone that brooked no argument. “You need not fear the expense,” he said, mistaking the reason for her protest. “I will see my lady with a mount of her own, and that is how matters shall be.”

“I will not choose one,” she insisted, knowing she sounded like a fool. “I will take no part in this scheme.” And then, because he looked inclined to insist, she lied. “I am afraid of horses, Alexander.”

“But you said that you learned to ride young...”

“And so I did, and for years I did so despite my fear. But I have had numerous bad experiences and do not venture near steeds any longer.”

“The best remedy for a fall is to climb into the saddle again,” Malcolm said, his manner helpful. “And you need not fear that a Ravensmuir horse will throw you. It takes much to provoke them.”

“No!” Eleanor said, too loudly. “I declined your gift!” She turned furiously upon Alexander, knowing she sounded mad but needing to ensure that this did not occur. “Have the grace to accept my refusal! I WILL HAVE NO HORSE!”

The household stood in astonished silence, but Eleanor pivoted and left the hall. Once on the stairs, she ran as quickly as she could for sanctuary of the solar. She pushed past one of Alexander’s sisters on the stairs, sparing no time to answer her query. She flung herself into the solar and turned the key against the lot of them.

It was only then that Eleanor let herself weep. It was her own folly at fault, to be sure. She had betrayed Blanchefleur’s memory by showing affection to the horses the day before, and now her affection would be used against her.

As it had been before.

She could not let that crime happen again, she could not, she cared not what she had to say to make it so. Let them think her mad. So long as the steeds were safe, she did not care.

* * *

Alexander looked after his wife in undisguised astonishment.

“Most women would welcome such a rich gift, as I have heard it told,” Malcolm said.

“I too would expect as much,” Alexander said, sensing that there was more to this matter than the refusal of a gift. Eleanor had panicked. He had seen the terror in her eyes, though he could not fathom the reason for it.

“I suppose her vigor is less astonishing if one knows of her fear,” Malcolm said.

“I am not certain that it is horses she fears,” Alexander said, then told his brother of her response the day before. Malcolm then shared his confusion. “I think we should choose one for her, despite this incident.”

“Perhaps she thinks the gift too generous,” Malcolm suggested. “Or does not dare to believe it possible that she could have a steed of her own. If she is fond of them, it might seem a lofty notion.”

“Indeed. She was at the window when you arrived, so she knows how fine the steeds are,” Alexander agreed. “Perhaps she dares not desire one, out of fear that she will be disappointed.”

“Have you disappointed your bride overmuch?” Malcolm teased.

Alexander had no chance to reply, for Isabella swept across the hall with no small indignation. “What have you done to your bride?” she demanded. “How could you make her cry so early in the day, Alexander? She is not so accustomed to your pranks as we are! And this after you have left her alone for two days and two nights. You are a churlish knave to be sure.”

“I would merely grant her a gift,” he said, lifting his hands in appeal. “Is it not fitting for a man to bestow a gift upon his bride?” The company chuckled at his manner and settled back to their meal, though doubtless a good measure of the gossip in the hall was about the laird and his lady.

“She must not believe you,” Isabella said with authority. “Though goodness knows how she would have discerned already that you can be merciless in teasing another soul.”

“Perhaps she is uncommonly perceptive,” Malcolm jested, and Isabella gasped with delight at the sight of him.

“Malcolm! I did not realize that you were home!” She hastened to give him a hug, then beamed at her brothers. “You should have told us that he was coming,” she informed Alexander.

“I did not know. He has only just arrived, and I dared not send word to awaken you too soon. I suspected after all that you would sleep much later than this.”

Isabella’s affection for lingering abed was well known and Malcolm laughed at this reminder. “Truly, are you Isabella?” he said, stepping back to study the maiden in question. “You resemble her, to be sure, but I have never seen my sister Isabella before noon.”

Isabella swatted at his shoulder and missed.

“It is guilt keeping her awake,” Alexander said solemnly. “For she did try to kill me Christmas Eve.” Isabella gasped at this accusation and made to qualify it, but Malcolm granted her no chance to speak.

“Why did you wait so long?” he demanded of her. “We could have been rid of him years ago. It would have been so much simpler when we were younger.”

They all laughed at this, though Alexander spared a glance for the stairs. Would it make matters worse to pursue Eleanor, or should he leave her be? The fact remained that she had never yet shown so much emotion as she had over the prospect of being given a horse. He had a sense that the veil over one of her secrets had been disturbed.

And the best way, he was certain, to completely reveal that secret was to proceed along the same course.

“Isabella, would you be of aid to us?” he asked. “You are as tall as Eleanor. Would you help us choose a mare for her to have as her own?”

“You mean to give her a horse?” Isabella’s mouth fell open in her astonishment. Alexander would have wagered that there was no small measure of jealousy in her response. “For her very own?”

“One of Ravensmuir’s mares,” Malcolm contributed.

Isabella gaped at this apparent injustice. “But you have known her only a few days! You have known me for every day of my life. Alexander, you must grant a steed to me!”

“Every bride should have a nuptial gift,” Alexander said mildly. “Perhaps your husband, when you choose one, will grant you a steed as well.”

Isabella glowered at him. “You mean to incent me to choose a suitor hurriedly.”

Alexander shrugged. “If you delay, then you cannot blame me for making your choice for you.”

Isabella’s eyes flashed, but suddenly she regarded him with suspicion. “It is no small gift to give a woman a horse of this ilk. You have already given her a gem.”

“Every bride also has need of a ring to seal her vows,” Alexander said.

“You see?” Malcolm teased. “Marriage is not without its merit.”

“It is more than that.” Isabella’s eyes gleamed. “You are smitten with her!”

“I am not smitten,” Alexander argued, but they both laughed at him so merrily that it seemed churlish to dispute the matter further. There was a measure of truth in it after all, for he was at least fascinated with his lady wife. “Come along, the two of you, let us choose a steed for my lady.” He made to march out of his hall, not waiting to see whether they followed him, but Anthony stepped into his course just before the portal.

“I would ask of you, my lord, whether the men in the stables would be staying for the midday meal.”

Alexander kept a smile on his lips, not wanting Malcolm to realize the full import of what he had asked of his elder brother. “Of course, Anthony. In fact, the party from Ravensmuir will remain at Kinfairlie indefinitely, while Malcolm himself will linger only through Epiphany.”

Anthony’s shock was clear, which meant that it must be considerable. The older man was usually adept at hiding his thoughts.

Alexander spoke quickly, the better to not have Anthony’s doubts expressed. “There is fodder for the horses, which will also remain, at Ravensmuir, though the ostlers intend to collect it today.”

“But my lord...”

“It is Christmas, Anthony, and I am certain that our guests can be ably accommodated.” Alexander spoke with cheer.

The castellan drew himself up to his full height and looked Alexander in the eye. “Perhaps, my lord, you might spare a moment for the cook, that you might decide the meat to be served at the midday meal this day.”

There was not sufficient of it, Alexander knew as much already. He held his castellan’s gaze, relieved that the older man seemed to have understood the situation. “It is the Feast of Holy Innocents this day, is it not?” The castellan nodded minutely. “And such a holy day is a fitting one for a measure of restraint. Please instruct the cook to bake bread with brown flour and ask of him to ascertain the quantity of fish at our disposal. I shall return shortly to review matters with him.”

“Of course, my lord.” Anthony bowed and Alexander strode out of the hall, willing his siblings to silence.

“I hate brown bread,” Isabella said with some vexation.

“It is better than none,” Malcolm retorted. “I welcome any morsel after these past months at Ravensmuir. The larder has been spare to be sure.”

Isabella flushed. “You should have come sooner,” she chided, taking his elbow. “There is always food aplenty at Kinfairlie, that is one matter upon which we can all rely.”

Alexander said nothing. To his relief, the matter was dropped, for they arrived at the stables and the horses of Ravensmuir, as always, drove all other concerns from his sister’s thoughts.

Indeed, they were magnificent beasts, and his own awe was no less considerable.

* * *

Eleanor took a shaking breath and straightened after her uncharacteristic storm of tears. She heard footsteps and voices and looked out the solar window in time to see Alexander crossing the bailey with Malcolm and one of his sisters. The fiery red of the maiden’s hair and her height indicated that it was Isabella. It must have been Isabella who had passed Eleanor on the stairs. The three made their way to the stables, Alexander striding with such purpose that Eleanor was newly afraid of his intent.

She was tormented by how little she knew of him. She had trusted Millard, after all, and he had not only committed a foul crime but laid the blame for it at her feet. Eleanor would never forget it and so great was her revulsion that she feared the crime was to be repeated.

She needed to count the horses, now, before a single one of them could be removed from the stables.

Eleanor wiped away her tears and adjusted the circlet that held her veil fast. She straightened the sleeves of her kirtle and ensured that her garters were firmly fastened. She unlocked the portal, secured the key to her belt. She chose the edge of the stairs, where they were less likely to creak, and moved like a wraith down the stairs.

The latch upon the door to the chamber the sisters shared rattled just as Eleanor passed it. She scurried down the stairs, not wanting her mission to be witnessed. She was almost in the hall when she heard that wooden portal slam overhead, which only hastened her steps even more.

The hall was busy and she was disinclined to exchange pleasantries. She nodded and smiled at several men who bowed to her, then headed for the kitchen as if she had a duty there.

“My lady!” Anthony bowed so low at the sight of her that his brow fairly touched the floor. The cook, standing by his side, looked grim and inclined his head crisply in greeting. “Perhaps you can be of aid to us, my lady. The laird insists that the question of meat for the midday meal will be addressed when he returns from the stables.”

Eleanor’s heart clutched at this, though she strove to give no outward sign of her consternation.

“But the cook says the hour is late, and he would know his orders immediately if not sooner.”

“Of course,” Eleanor agreed, and the cook looked relieved. “I understand that we have guests this day?”

“Another twenty men arrived from Ravensmuir this very morning, including those already in the hall!” the cook said, his frustration clear. “There are only scraps of venison left. The laird has requested brown bread this day, which aids the matter mightily, but we cannot serve bread alone.”

“Have you fish?”

“Two barrels of smoked fish, my lady. The laird suggested fish, but I had intended to serve these for Friday’s fast.”

“We shall fret about Friday on Friday,” she said crisply. “And it may well be a fast in truth. We shall have the bread and the smoked fish, fried if you can manage as much, for men who have traveled favor a hot meal in their bellies.”

“It can be done, my lady.”

“And we shall have a stew this evening, a thin one with a great deal of gravy. Have you any kale remaining in the garden?”

The cook grimaced. “It is not as fine as once it was...”

“But it is there and it will do, especially with venison gravy. Even upon his holy days, the Lord cannot expect us to offer more than our all.”

The cook beamed at this resolution. “I have a measure of butter yet, my lady, and the chives are yet growing for I have not cut them of late. The fish will be fare for a king, upon that you can rely.”

Eleanor smiled. “I thank you, and await them with anticipation.”

She turned away and Anthony was fast beside her. “I thank you, my lady, for your timely arrival and for your solution, as well.”

“We have need of a party to ride to hunt this afternoon, Anthony,” she said, thinking only of ensuring there was sufficient meat for the board. “My laird has hunting grounds, of course?”

“Kinfairlie holds extensive lands, my lady, and its forests are abundant with wildlife.”

“Excellent. A hart or another large beast would be ideal, though even a wagonload of pheasants would be welcome. Whether the laird is occupied this day or not, might you see a hunting party arranged among his guests?”

Anthony frowned. “Few are noble, my lady, so few have the right to hunt.”

She granted him a stern glance. “It is matter of seeing the board laden, Anthony. If the laird cannot lead the party, then you shall lead it. I do not care whether its members are noble or common: I care only that they return with sufficient meat for a hundred souls for at least two days.”

Anthony’s brow lifted. “But...”

“It is of no merit to a laird’s reputation to have no morsel to offer his guests, especially in this season. I trust that you will ensure our laird’s honor is upheld.”

Anthony bowed. “It shall be as you decree, my lady.” Whether he was surprised or pleased, Eleanor could not say, but he fixed her with a bright eye. “If I may suggest as much, my lady, it is encouraging to note that you and the laird share similar views upon this matter. Just yesterday, my lord Alexander insisted that sufficient saffron grace the sauce, regardless of the cost.”

Eleanor smiled at that, and was reassured that her own advice was consistent with that of her spouse. “It is Christmas, Anthony.”

“Indeed, my lady, and blessings abound at Kinfairlie.”

Eleanor left the hall then and strode to the stables, the sweet scent of hay and horseflesh awakening a thousand memories. An ostler nodded to her there. He must have seen forty summers, thus must have been in a position of some authority, though Eleanor could not recall seeing him before.

“Begging your pardon, but you would be the Lady of Kinfairlie, if I am not mistaken,” he said, and bowed with an awkwardness that indicated that he was not accustomed to encountering noblewomen.

“That I am.” A curious thrill tripped over Eleanor’s flesh as she claimed her title as Alexander’s wife for the first time. “I understand there are new horses arrived.”

Dozens of horses peered over their stalls at the sound of voices, their ears flicking in curiosity. She could not see Alexander, though the stables were deeply shadowed in comparison to the bright morning sun.

“From Ravensmuir, my lady. I brought them.” He hesitated, his heavy hands twisting in indecision when she simply stood and stared at what she could see of the beasts. They were large horses, larger than any she had ridden before, larger than she had guessed from her solar window. They were beautiful beyond belief. “Would you like to see the young ones?” he offered. “I reckon as the laird has plans for them, so you should see them sooner rather than later.”

Eleanor’s breath caught in fear again. “I will see them all,” she said with resolve. “Though I will see the foals first, if you please.”

The ostler ducked his head and turned, content to have a purpose, and led her to a large stall. “Mind your step, my lady. They have not been in the stall for long, but one never knows. And two of the mares would have no part of being separated from the young ones, so the stall is crowded to be sure.”

He opened the wooden door and Eleanor stepped just over the threshold. The foals turned, curious, their eyes gleaming in the shadows. Their tales swished and one might have stepped closer, but a massive mare interceded.

She placed herself between Eleanor and the foals with a decisive step. The mare sniffed Eleanor’s hands and her hair first. It was as if the horse meant to ensure her intent, and Eleanor held her breath. The perusal seemed to take overlong and for a moment, she feared that the mare somehow knew of her perfidy.

Did the steeds know of Blanchefleur, or worse, that Eleanor had not had the wits to save that horse?

The mare abruptly snorted and tossed her head, then bent to nibble Eleanor’s hair. Eleanor, overwhelmed, felt her knees weaken at this approval. She reached to scratch the horse’s nose.

At that, the foals eased closer, echoing the way the mare had sniffed her. Their coats were silken soft, their noses like the finest velvet, their haunches muscled. Even the foals were nigh as tall as she, though they must have been born the previous spring.

They were exquisitely beautiful, and though Eleanor ached to have one as her own, she dared not let any other soul witness her fondness for them. She had made that error once before and reluctantly lifted her hands away when she recalled the ostler’s presence. She was here only to complete her count.

But she had no chance to do so.

“What are you doing here?” Alexander demanded before she could turn. Eleanor’s heart sank like a stone. She composed her features so that none of her joy showed, then pivoted to confront him.

He stood beside the ostler, his frown surely one of confusion. “I thought you feared horses. Why would you enter the stall, then, no less do so alone?”

Eleanor met Alexander’s steady gaze and for once in all her days, she did not know what to say.

Chapter Ten

Alexander had not yet seen Eleanor at a loss for words and he was not certain that he ever wished to see the sight again.

He certainly did not want to be responsible for the circumstance again. She stood and stared at him with wide eyes, the color drained from her face. There was no doubt that he had given her a shock, albeit unwillingly.

“I thought you did not like horses,” he repeated more gently and she seemed to shake herself. She lifted her chin and her composure returned. He had the sense that she armed herself against him, and truly he could read no more of her thoughts than those of an opponent with his visor down.

“I do not,” she said crisply. “My refusal of your gift appeared to trouble you, though, so I strove to overcome my instinct. It is the duty of a woman to see her husband pleased, after all.”

It had been, on the contrary, the lady who had been troubled by the prospect of his gift. Alexander had simply been confused by her response.

Her protest might have been more plausible had the mare not persisted in nuzzling her hair. Alexander was sufficiently familiar with horses to know that they did not show affection to those who feared or disliked them.

The horse dug its nose into the neckline of Eleanor’s kirtle with some persistence and it was impossible to believe that someone who disliked horses would have been deemed worthy of such a friendly assault by the mare, or equally, that that person would have endured it. Eleanor’s fingers twitched, as if she yearned to scratch the mare’s nose, so Alexander did not put much faith in her words.

In fact, his blood began to simmer that she lied. How much of a fool did she believe him to be? And what was the value of her word, she who had pledged to have honesty between them?

He resolved in that moment to feign belief in her lie, the better to see how long she would insist upon it.

“You seem to make great progress,” he said, as if he had not noted the conflicting evidence, as if he were not vexed indeed. He stepped into the stall himself, granting the ostler a nod of dismissal. Eleanor stiffened and did not raise so much as a finger to the horses. The young ones jostled her, revealed that she had petted them before. “Did you ride often as a child?”

“Of course,” she admitted as if she would have preferred to not do so. “My tutors ensured that I could ride with grace.”

“And so they should have done,” Alexander said easily. He scratched the mare’s ears and the beast blew her lips in pleasure. “This is Guinevere, in the event that introductions have not been made.”

“Named for Arthur’s queen?” Eleanor regarded the horse warily, though there was a telling admiration in her eyes.

Alexander nodded, biting down his rising displeasure. The woman could not have lied to save her life! She must think him witless! “Indeed, for the stallions cannot resist her allure. She foals nigh every year, despite the ostler’s best efforts to ensure otherwise.”

“Would you not breed her annually?”

“It has been my family’s practice to breed each mare every second or even every third year, the better that she might recover from her feat.” Alexander smiled thinly. “Guinevere, however, has too many ardent suitors to find that scheme fitting.”

“She seems sufficiently hale.”

“She is a marvel, to be sure.” Alexander caught Eleanor’s hand and placed it upon Guinevere’s nose, covering it with his own as if she truly were fearful of steeds. He felt her fingers curve instinctively to the horse before she snatched her hand away.

“She is too large to be trusted. Look at her teeth!”

“She is as gentle as a spring rain,” Alexander argued. He met Eleanor’s gaze and lowered his voice so that only his wife could hear it. “You seem uncommonly familiar with horses.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then dropped her gaze and spoke hurriedly. “Nonetheless, they strike a terror in my very veins,” she insisted breathlessly.

Alexander stepped closer to his wife when her words faltered. She might have pushed past him and left the stall, but he caught her elbow in his hand, intent upon having the truth.

But Eleanor was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her vulnerability caught Alexander by surprise, and as previously, it utterly disarmed him. He urged her closer to his side before he thought twice. She stood trembling, almost within his embrace, and he marveled at her distress.

“Do not compel me to possess another steed, Alexander. Do not grant me this gift, I beg of you. If there has ever been a measure of kindness in your heart, then surrender this concession to me. And do not ask me more of this matter, I beg of you.”

Alexander was astonished by this appeal, no less by the fact that Eleanor made it. It was not like her to reveal her emotions so clearly. “I meant it as a nuptial gift.”

“No gift would be a better one,” she said with vehemence.

Alexander held her fast, intending to ask more, but tears glistened upon his lady wife’s cheeks. What had happened to so distress her?

“Would you at least look upon these steeds?” Alexander suggested gently. “They are fine beasts, and we may never see their ilk so gathered again.”

Eleanor started at that, though Alexander could not imagine why, and she clutched his arm with sudden vigor. “What is your intent for the foals?” she demanded with urgency. “The ostler said you had a scheme for them?”

Alexander shrugged, not seeing the reason for her concern. “I have none as yet, though perhaps the ostler believes I do. They would fetch a fair price, to be sure, but it has not been the habit of my family to casually be rid of the steeds of Ravensmuir. We keep them until they are at least two years of age, so these foals will not be leaving our care soon.”

“What then?” Her anxiety was undiminished, though he was mystified by it.

“We grant them as gifts of honor, to friends and allies whom we know to be worthy of possessing such a beast. They are treasures, and we ensure that any master who claims one will see the beast well-treated indeed.” Alexander smiled, hoping to reassure her. “There are treasures in this world with value beyond their price.”

She studied him, as if uncertain whether to believe him.

“Come,” Alexander suggested. “Come and meet mine own destrier. He was entrusted to my care by my uncle Tynan when I earned by spurs. I have ignored Uriel of late, and must warn you that he may well prove himself worthy of the name ‘the fire of God’.”

It was meant to be a jest, but Eleanor did not laugh. She did, however, let Alexander lead her from the stall containing the foals and deeper into the stables, though her clutch upon his arm was tight.

He could make no sense of the fact that she murmured beneath her breath as they made their way through the stables. Unless he missed his guess, she was counting the horses.

But why? Did she mean to have an inventory of Ravensmuir’s wealth? The dark thought was unwelcome but not easily dismissed. Any wealth he possessed was almost entirely in these stables, to be sure, and if the horses were sold, they would fetch a high price.

Alexander knew a moment’s fear. Did his wife have a scheme for his assets, one she would follow after his untimely demise? It was an unsettling prospect, but one he could not easily discredit, not when she lied to him with such vigor.

There was nothing for it: Eleanor conjured a new puzzle for each one he believed himself to have solved. And Alexander, perhaps to his own detriment, was only more intrigued with each successive mystery she revealed. Truth was what he needed from her, though he knew not how to persuade her to reveal it.

He was even less certain how he would know when he found it.

* * *

The saucemaker proved to be Moira’s downfall.

It was imperative that Moira confide a detail she had observed to her mistress, which meant she had to enter Kinfairlie’s hall. Moira had managed to join the revels to celebrate her lady’s nuptials, but had not been able to linger within the hall. That night, the merry guests had been fairly swept out to the bailey. Despite her best efforts, she had not managed to enter the keep since.

That castellan was cursed quick, to be sure.

But this scheme was ideal. It was a simple feat to pick up a load of wood and march into Kinfairlie’s kitchens as if she belonged there, especially when so many others did as much. For truly, Moira did belong within the keep’s walls, as her lady was now mistress there.

Moira’s loyal heart burned at the travesty of the whispers she had heard against Lady Eleanor. Worse, there was treachery afoot in this very hall, treachery that would see her lady poorly served and that too soon. She could set matters to right, Moira could, if only she could reach her mistress.

She was relieved to note that the castellan had left the kitchens. She followed the other women to the large pile of faggots and bent to deposit her load there, feigning familiarity with the kitchens all the while. So it was that Moira was astonished when she straightened and the plump fair man pointed his ladle at her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice loud enough that several others turned.

Moira glanced behind herself, for she knew herself to not be worthy of note.

“Nay, I mean you,” the man insisted. “I have never seen you in this hall before. Who are you?”

Moira felt her cheeks heat. She was not accustomed to being noticed. “Do not be ridiculous.” She conjured a lie with haste. “I have labored here since midsummer.”

He shook his head and came closer. “I do not think so. I would have recalled you, of this I am certain. Who are you?”

“Aye, who are you?” asked the cook. He was a formidable man, and though he was not angry, his very size made Moira leery of him.

“I am merely a woman, once scarce worthy of note,” Moira said with some pride and straightened her apron. “If you will excuse me, there is wood to be brought for the fires.”

“Nay I will not excuse you, not without knowing your name,” the saucemaker insisted.

Moira glared at him. “My name is not of import.”

The cook began to chuckle. “She has seen your intent, Cedric, and does not welcome your attentions. Leave the woman be.”

The saucemaker’s ears turned crimson. “I but wish to know her name. That is the fullness of my intent.”

The cook laughed harder. “The sauce has need of thickening, Cedric. Get yourself to your labor.”

Cedric sputtered for a moment, gave Moira a beseeching glance. When she did not respond, he heaved a sigh. He turned to his sauce, sparing the occasional glance her way.

Glad of this reprieve, Moira turned to depart, but the cook laid a heavy finger upon her shoulder to halt her. “And still I do not know your name, nor from whence you hail,” he said, his voice lowered so that the others in the kitchens turned back to their labor.

Moira shrugged. “Surely the name of a little woman is not of such import?”

The cook arched a brow. “The name of every soul in my kitchens is of import, for I will not suffer my laird’s hall to be breached through my portal. Further, you have lied and done so with ease. I know that you were not here at midsummer. Indeed, Cedric speaks aright, for I know that you have not crossed this threshold before.” He held her gaze, his own kindly but firm. “Who are you?”

Moira squared her shoulders, seeing nothing for it. “My name is Moira Goodall and I pledged myself to the service of Lady Eleanor Havilland, surrendering that pledge to her own mother when that lady laid at death’s door.”

The cook pursed his lips. “The same Lady Eleanor who wed our laird?”

Moira nodded. “The same.”

“But she came with no attendant.”

Moira lifted her chin. “I followed her, as is my duty.”

The cook considered her for a moment. He inclined his head and Moira thought herself excused, but he laid claim to her elbow. “The truth of your tale can easily be ascertained,” he said. He led her from the kitchens into the dark corridor that must lead to the hall.

It was only then that Moira’s spirit quailed. Surely Lady Eleanor had not left her behind at Tivotdale for a reason? Surely her lady was not displeased with her service?

Surely her lady would not deny her?

* * *

Eleanor was flattered by Alexander’s attentions and his determination to aid in conquering her supposed fear of steeds. It was no ordeal to have him by her side, his fingers brushing her elbow, her hand, the tip of her nose in a sequence of small gestures that left her tingling from head to toe.

The man could awaken lust in a corpse, Eleanor was certain of it. He covered his hand with hers when he showed her how to stroke a horse, he put his arm around her waist when leading her closer to one of the great steeds. There was nothing improper in his gestures, not between man and wife, but his every touch made her yearn to meet him abed again.

All the same, it was less than convenient to be the focus of his attention. She could not accurately count the horses, and a precise count was critical to her ensuring their welfare. Alexander would not be persuaded to leave her alone in the stables, which must be the warren of her fears, and Eleanor had only her own impetuous lie to blame.

So it was that her footsteps dragged when he returned to the hall and he turned upon her with laughing eyes. “So, you are reluctant to leave the stables,” he teased, his manner making her heart skip. “The antidote for your fears would seem to be half-ingested.”

She wondered then if he had discerned her lie and felt churlish for ever having uttered it. “Perhaps you have dismissed my fears. You know full well that no woman with blood in her veins could resist your assurances,” she retorted.

He laughed. “Then there are a cursed number of bloodless women in this vicinity, to be sure. Even you have shown yourself resistant to me.”

“Hardly that!” Eleanor was certain that her attraction to him was obvious to the most casual observer and had been so from the moment that first they met. At his skeptical glance, she found herself flushing. “I yearn for your caress at the merest glimpse of you,” she admitted, blushing at the truth of it. “And I ached with your absence this past night. Surely, you must know as much.”

“Truly?” Alexander halted between stables and hall. The sunlight danced off the last of the snow, which lingered in corners of the bailey. The sky was a clear blue, a hue that matched Alexander’s eyes and made the twinkles within them seem to dance more merrily. He touched a fingertip to her arm, mischief in the curve of his lips. “What of a touch?” he mused.

Eleanor felt the weight of his fingertip and the heat of it through her chemise. “You force me to cede an advantage to you,” she charged. “In your quest for truth between us.”

His smile flashed and his fingertip eased up her arm. “Truth is never easily gained,” he murmured. “Though this would be a welcome one.”

His fingertip found her shoulder and Eleanor straightened beneath its ceaseless caress. Alexander watched his fingertip as he traced the curve of her collarbone. Even through the barrier of her garments, she was certain she could feel his touch as surely as if she had been nude before him. Her very flesh was afire, her heart pounded as if she had run a thousand miles.

“Surely you do not quail before such a quest,” she said, her words uncommonly breathless. “I thought you a knight of formidable will.”

He met her gaze, snaring her with that vivid blue. “Surely even the most valiant warrior should not undertake such a quest without his lady’s support?”

“Do you ask for mine?”

He nodded, his manner so intent that she knew he missed no nuance of her expression.

“Then you have it,” she said softly. “You have but to ask me for any deed that is within my power to surrender to you.”

“What of any truth?”

Eleanor swallowed. “Yours for the asking.”

He arched a dark brow, his fingertip reaching the hollow of her throat, which was bare to his touch. Eleanor caught her breath as he traced a circle there. “Did you surrender as much to your other husbands?”

Eleanor swallowed and held his gaze determinedly, willing him to understand. “Neither asked me for truth. Neither treated me with courtesy.” She caught his hand in hers, lifting it from her flesh, and pressed a kiss into his palm. “Neither tempted me to indecency before the entire household.” She smiled then, guessing him to be surprised by her candor. “How fares your taste for truth, husband?”

His eyes glinted with what might have been satisfaction. “I did not know that I tempted you to indecency.”

Eleanor felt her smile broaden. “You awaken my desire apurpose, my lord. Have the honor to confess to some truth of your own.”

Alexander grinned. “I attempt to conjure your desire, to be sure, though it is not for me to say how well I succeed.”

“Yet surely you must know that you do.” She laid his hand against her throat, letting him feel the thunder of her pulse. His eyes widened slightly, then she took the sole step between them. She placed her lips against his own throat and whispered against his very flesh. “Know, my lord, that I yearn for a sweet morsel this midday, a sweeter one than will be served at the board.”

Alexander chuckled. “I think I should have asked for honesty sooner,” he teased, catching her shoulders in his hands. “But why such ardor, Eleanor? It is my understanding that such heated desire is uncommon for women.”

She studied him for a long moment, then granted him the truth he desired. “And so it was always for me,” she admitted quietly. “I have never savored meetings abed, Alexander. I have only endured the touch of my husbands, until you.”

He looked skeptical.

“Is it not part of every tale that the champion’s kiss awakens the passion lurking in his lady’s heart?”

Alexander smiled. “Now, you sound like my sister Vivienne, although she would likely have said that the champion’s kiss melted the frost about his lady’s heart. She would insist that the lady’s true love was the sole man who could awaken the love slumbering within her, and that his deed in so doing would show the lady his merit.”

“You speak of love again.”

“I salute its merit.”

“I speak of desire and pleasure abed, and the fact that I have missed your caress these past two nights.”

“That is well and good, though I warn you that I seek more.”

Eleanor turned away from him, making her way to the hall. Her innards churned, for she understood what he asked of her and knew she could not surrender it to him.

She pivoted to face him and let the words spill before she thought better. “Here is truth, Alexander. Love between man and wife leads only to bitterness and unhappiness. Love may be a marvel, but it is one of short duration and one destined to turn against the lovers. I vowed young that I would never love a man, that I would never love my husband, and so I uphold that pledge. I lust for you, as I have never lusted for any man. Let that suffice.”

“It will not,” he said with soft conviction. He strode toward her, catching her hand when she might have left him. “Love and honesty and truth and justice were what I was raised to expect, and expect them I do.”

“Do not compel me to lie to you!”

“I do not,” he said with such force. “Though you choose to do so.”

Eleanor flushed and looked away from him, fearful that he would spurn her for her lie, more fearful that her suspicions might prove true.

“Tell me about Ewen Douglas,” he said softly and Eleanor’s gaze flew to his in alarm. “Alan charged that you killed him, and though I put no credit in that man’s word, still I wonder why you left Tivotdale in such haste, in the midst of the night.”

Eleanor straightened. The gleam in Alexander’s eye told her that all rested upon her answer to this. “I warned you once that you might not savor the taste of truth.”

He inclined his head slightly. “And yet I ask for it all the same.”

Eleanor licked her lips. Her heart raced, so fearful was she that Alexander would put her aside, that this fragile dream would be shattered so soon.

But there was nothing for it. She lifted her chin. “Alan spoke aright. I did kill Ewen Douglas, and that was why I fled Tivotdale. But that is not the worst of it.”

“Tell me,” he urged, his manner intent.

“I do not regret the deed, and I know that I never will.” Eleanor held his gaze defiantly, then pivoted to march toward the hall. She thought he would not follow her, she thought that all she had hoped to gain in Kinfairlie was laid to waste.

Then Alexander’s hand closed around her elbow as he matched his steps to hers.

“You do not abandon me,” she said, knowing astonishment echoed in her tone.

“I already know of one good reason you had to see Ewen dead, and I do not doubt that there are others,” he said with such conviction that Eleanor’s mouth fell open in her surprise. She looked up, fearful that he jested with her, but Alexander merely winked at her. “I thank you for your confidence, Eleanor. This bodes well for our marriage indeed.”

Eleanor blinked as they closed the distance to the hall. No man had ever granted her the benefit of the doubt. No man had ever suggested that she might have had cause for her deeds.

“I would ask you to reconsider the merit of your youthful pledge against love,” Alexander said as they neared the threshold. “It was, after all, made without the fullness of all you now know to be true.”

She stared at him, astonished to find herself considering that very prospect. This was the danger of this man, his handsome visage and his smooth charm. He could persuade her that day was night or that night was day. He could make her wonder whether love had any merit at all, he could make her burn to meet him abed, he could tempt her to conjure for him a son, he could persuade her to offer her very heart to him.

And what would befall her after Alexander had a son? Then he would learn of her father’s bequest, then he would have coin aplenty for Kinfairlie, then he would have no need of a lady by his side who refused to open her heart to him.

But would it not be worse to be cast aside then if she had opened her heart and come to love him? Eleanor stared at him, not knowing what to say, and Alexander smiled.

“It is a fool who imagines that the prize of a lady’s heart can be won with ease, for what is readily surrendered is seldom of any value at all.”

Eleanor did not challenge his assertion, for she was beginning to fear that he spoke the truth. What that would mean for her, she could not begin to guess.

* * *

Eleanor had little chance to consider the matter further, for Anthony met them at the portal to the hall. The cook stood beside him and between the two men was the last woman Eleanor had ever expected to see again.

And worse, the maid looked frightened.

“Moira!” she exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing at Kinfairlie?”

Moira bowed and the two men exchanged a glance. “I followed you, my lady, for I was certain that you had not meant to leave me behind at Tivotdale and I could not break my pledge to your own mother, made as it was upon her deathbed.”

Typically, words fell with haste from Moira’s lips. The maid had never been valued for her discretion, but for her loyalty. In this moment, Eleanor wished the maid would fall silent.

“I did not wish to endanger you, Moira. I knew not where I would find sanctuary or even if I would find it.” Eleanor smiled. “Such an uncertain fate seemed a poor reward for your years of service. I had thought that you might find a place at Tivotdale.”

Moira snorted. “I would not linger willingly in that hall! The foul words they utter about you are beyond belief!” She spared a sidelong glance to Anthony. “Would you linger beneath the authority of any soul who saw fit to defame your laird?”

Anthony opened his mouth and closed it again, for he was not adverse to criticizing his own laird himself. Eleanor saw Alexander bite back a smile.

“It is improper, and it is wrong,” Moira declared. “No maid should so much as whisper against her lady. I told them, I did, that it might look badly for you, my lady, but that we must have seen only half the tale. My laird Ewen might well have deserved to have died for the deeds he committed against you, but that is not the same as certainty that you saw him dead with your own hand.” Moira took a deep breath.

“That is sufficient, Moira,” Eleanor interjected, trying to halt the torrent of the maid’s words.

Her attempt failed utterly.

“Nay, it is far from the same, though that is not to say that he would not have deserved as much, the drunken sot,” Moira spat on the ground. “There is no man worth his salt who treats a lady so poorly as he treated you...”

“Moira, enough!”

“Taking the gem from your mother on the night of your nuptials!” Moira shook a finger at the castellan, then at the cook, and both men took a step back in their discomfiture. “A man who would not show honor to his lady on such a night is a knave and a cur and a shameless rogue, to be sure. I would not wipe my feet to attend his funeral!”

“What gem?” Alexander asked softly and Eleanor knew he would not cease until her had the full tale.

“It was a sentimental piece, and scarce worthy of note,” she said hastily, doubting that she could limit his curiosity. The man was cursedly determined in pursuit of a secret! “Moira found his gesture discourteous, no more than that.”

“Yet again, Ewen showed his measure,” Alexander murmured.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but there was much more than that!” Moira cried. “My lady gives credit where it is not due, if I may be so bold as to say as much.”

“Would that not be a criticism of your lady?” Anthony murmured, but Moira ignored him.

She appealed instead to Alexander. “This was a gem from my lady’s own mother, the sole token that she had remaining of that great lady, a lady I served from the time I was ten summers of age. I was there when Lady Eleanor was born, I was there when Lady Yolanda breathed her last, I was there when the laird himself rent his hair and wept like a child.”

“Moira,” Eleanor said. Hers was a token protest, for she knew that the full tale would spill now and there was nothing she could do about it.

Moira took a ragged breath and jabbed her thumb into her own chest. “I was there when the great lady Yolanda took the crucifix from her own neck and pressed it into mine own humble hand and bade me swear that I would see to the welfare of her babe, the child whose birthing would claim her own life, and that I would ensure that her newly born daughter would have that gem for her own.”

Moira shook that finger at Alexander. “And I protected that gem with my life and I secured it for my lady, and my lady Eleanor’s father saw fit to let me—me!—hang it around her neck when she first celebrated the miracle of the Eucharist.” She took a shaking breath and wiped away a tear. “He was a hard man, was your father, my lady Eleanor, but his heart was good.”

“Moira, I believe you have said enough,” Eleanor said so firmly that the maid blushed.

“On the contrary,” Alexander said. “I would hear more of this gem.” Eleanor would have protested but his grip tightened on her hand. He granted her a piercing look. “If I am not mistaken, it would be the one you wished you wore at our nuptials.”

Eleanor nodded and averted her gaze.

“Rightly so, my lord, for it is a gem that should adorn any bride in my lady Eleanor’s lineage. So, the great lady Yolanda told me and so I saw with mine own eyes, and that more than once.” Moira fell abruptly silent. The maid’s gaze danced between laird and lady, for she finally understood Eleanor’s manner.

“Moira?” Alexander prompted. Eleanor nodded minutely, for the harm was done, and the maid smiled.

“It was a crucifix, my lord, one that had been in Lady Yolanda’s family for generations, or so she told me. The women in her family wore it openly upon their nuptial day and beneath their garb otherwise lest it attract avaricious eyes, and so Lady Eleanor wore it on the day of her nuptials with Laird Ewen, just as she had when she wedded my lord Millard.”

“And what was it like?” Alexander prompted.

“It was wrought of rubies set in gold, my lord, as long and as broad as my hand, as brilliant as the sun in the summer sky. It was a treasure, to be sure, and one that fiendish Laird Ewen stole from my lady fair.”

“A treasure, perhaps, with a value beyond its price,” Alexander mused. Eleanor felt Alexander’s gaze upon her, as well as the attention of both cook and castellan, but she stared at the tips of her shoes. Her entire being roiled at the injustice she had been served at Ewen’s hand and though a part of her longed to tell Alexander all of it, another part of her feared that he would not take that particular truth well.

“Indeed!” Moira agreed with gusto.

“And you never retrieved it?” Alexander asked Eleanor quietly.

She had been so certain that he would ask another question, one less mild, that she glanced up. There was consideration in his gaze, a consideration that told her that his larger questions would be asked in privacy.

There was much to be said for a man who treated her with courtesy before his household. Eleanor released the breath she did not realize she had been holding and forced a small smile. “It was to be returned to me when I bore him a son, but I never rounded with child in Ewen’s household.” She shrugged as if the matter was of less import than it was.

“Drunken sot,” Moira muttered.

Alexander ignored the comment. “And you did not retrieve it when you left?”

“I could not find it on the night I departed from Tivotdale,” Eleanor said with a smoothness that belied her panicked search of Ewen’s chamber. “Though truly I was disappointed to lose so precious a reminder of my mother.”

“As any thinking soul would have been,” Alexander said with resolve. “I welcome you, Moira, to Kinfairlie. Should your lady desire your continued service in her chamber, I have no objection, or if not, there will be a place for you in my hall in gratitude for your loyalty to my lady wife.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Moira said with a deep bow, then looked expectantly at Eleanor. The cook bowed and returned to the kitchens.

“I thank you, my lord, for this courtesy,” Eleanor said. “And I would counsel Moira upon what must be done, with your indulgence.”

“Of course.” Alexander kissed her fingertips in parting, granting her a significant glance that Eleanor did not doubt was a portent of the questions he would ask later. He looked determined, did her spouse, as he had not before in her presence.

He would ask about Ewen and she could only hope for his mercy.

Eleanor urged Moira aside as Alexander progressed into the hall. “I would have you make your way to the stables,” she whispered to the maid. “Without any noting your passage.” The maid nodded vigorously. “And there would have you count the steeds. They are numerous, as many have arrived this very day...”

“I saw them! Such marvelous beasts...”

“Moira!” Eleanor chided in a whisper, wishing there was another soul she might ask to do this errand. “I beg you, let no soul see you enter or leave the stables. Come to me before the evening meal with your tally. The laird’s chamber is two flights up from the hall: I shall ensure that your passage is not impeded.”

“Yes, my lady.” Moira bowed, then gave her mistress a shy smile. “I am gladdened to find you hale, my lady.”

Eleanor smiled in return. “And I, you, Moira.”

“And I offer congratulations, my lady. There is not a foul word to be heard about the Laird of Kinfairlie.”

Eleanor nodded, hoping rumor proved true in this circumstance.

“But there is something I must confess to you, my lady.”

“I thank you for your tidings, Moira, but they will wait until later.” Eleanor shook her head, knowing the maid would chatter the day away. “Make haste upon my errand!”

* * *

Alexander was jubilant. Eleanor had confided in him, and better, she had surrendered a truth that could not have been difficult to confess.

He was untroubled that she had killed Ewen Douglas. He knew well enough that a woman could strike back in the midst of abuse and see her abuser felled. That Ewen drank with such gusto only lent credence to such a notion.

Alexander did not mourn Ewen’s passing, and he could not blame his lady wife for not so doing. This confession of hers though vastly encouraged him. If she could tell him this, then she trusted him in truth.

And that could only be a good omen for their future together.

To Alexander’s further delight, the cook had no need of his counsel. Eleanor had already resolved the questions about the menu for the midday meal. He could well become accustomed to such assistance as she so adroitly offered—indeed, it made the weight of responsibility seem less onerous to have it shared.

Alexander turned toward the hall with a lightened step, content to let Eleanor dictate to Moira’s actions as well. He was yet mulling upon the details offered by the garrulous Moira when Anthony cleared his throat portentously.

“Is that not the sum of it, Anthony?”

“I am afraid not, my lord. My lady has made the most excellent suggestion that a party ride to hunt this afternoon, to better provide meat for tomorrow’s board. A hunt would provide entertainment for your guests, as well as see their bellies full.”

Alexander, bold with recent revelations, could not help but tease his stern castellan. “And it is a fine idea, Anthony.” He sighed and frowned, just as Eleanor rejoined them.

“Is there a problem, my lord?” she asked.

He shook his head, as if sorely burdened. “Only that my responsibilities tear me both one way and another. I intended to spend the better part of this day with my accounts, the better to ensure that they were resolved by year end, but your suggestion that we hunt this day is a good one.”

“You meant to labor again at your accounts?” Anthony demanded, fighting unsuccessfully to hide his delight. “Willingly, my lord?”

“Of course, willingly, Anthony. A laird cannot neglect his duties, and I should not have to tell you that balancing the ledgers is a duty of considerable import.”

“Certainly, my lord. You will find no argument from me upon this matter.”

“Ah, but the meat,” Alexander shook his head and let his brow furrow anew. “Is it a greater duty to see one’s guests entertained and well-fed, or to know the status of one’s holding?”

Eleanor came to his side, the way that she fought a smile revealing that she had overheard their words. “Perhaps another could lead the hunt. Your brother, perhaps?”

“But he has ridden already this day and it is not his duty.” Alexander spared his lady a mischievous glance, deciding that it would not hurt to tease her either. “And I could not ask you to take a hawk upon your fist and lead the party, not given your fear of horses.”

To her credit, Eleanor flushed and looked away.

Anthony appeared to be genuinely concerned. “But my lord, surely the ledgers could wait until the morrow?”

“Anthony! I am shocked to hear you suggest such a course! How many times have you told me that leaving a deed until the morrow only encourages a man to leave it to the morrow again and so on, next to next, until the deed is never done?”

Anthony flushed and averted his gaze in turn.

Alexander placed a hand over his heart. “Ah, my beloved ledgers. Duty calls and I shall have to put them aside for the fickle pleasures of the hunt. Such is but one of the burdens laid upon me.” He began to walk to the board, leaving them both with something to consider.

To his surprise, Eleanor stepped after him. “I could labor upon the accounts in your stead, my lord.”

Alexander pivoted.

Anthony’s eyes had widened in his own surprise. “My lady, such skill is not typically among the talents of a noblewoman.”

She lifted her chin. “My father taught me to read and to write, as well as how to balance an account, the better to ensure that I not be cheated.”

The men exchanged a glance, but Alexander recalled her earlier assertions about her duties in her father’s hall and indeed, her sage counsel regarding tithes and fees.

All the same, her offer came in a moment that made him wonder. Why would she wish to see the ledgers of Kinfairlie? Did she mean to have a better assessment of the weight of his purse? Did she not believe his protests of his estate’s poverty?

Or did she merely mean to be of assistance? He looked upon her, her chin held high, her gaze steady, and wanted to trust her.

He looked upon the fullness of her lips, their ruddy hue, their delicious curve. He recalled her own confession that he easily kindled her ardor, and thought about partaking of another feast than the one being laid in the hall.

But that pleasure would have to wait.

“I could not ask such a deed of you, not when you already do so much,” he said with gallantry. “Come, let us make merry at the midday meal, then I shall take our guests to hunt.” He pulled her close to his side as they stepped toward the high table and lowered his voice so that only she could hear his words. “I warn you, though, that I will have a fancy for a sweet this night, after we retire to our chambers.”

“How sad,” she murmured, “for I have a taste for just such a sweet, though I yearn for it now.” Then she spared him a sparkling glance, one that brought his very blood to a simmer and made him wonder how quickly his party might fell a buck or two.

* * *

In the end, it was not a buck that was felled.

Uriel, true to his name and Alexander’s recent inattention, was in a fearsome fury as soon as he was led from the stables. The steed scarcely calmed, even when Alexander himself seized the beast’s bridle. The entire household watched, and Alexander had no intent of being bested by a feisty steed.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Eleanor’s maid Moira slip from the stables. She made her way to her mistress’ side, then murmured something to Eleanor. Eleanor nodded, her gaze unswerving from Alexander. Alexander had little time to wonder about this oddity, for Uriel commanded his full attention.

“Calm yourself,” he bade the steed, his words stern and low. He held the reins fast. “I am not so unfamiliar to you as that.” The stallion blew out his lips, his ears quivering, and there was a fearsome light in his eye. “Has any foul deed befallen him, Owen?” he asked the ostler, unable to account for the stallion’s mood.

“Not as I know, my lord. He has been brushed and turned into the fields daily, as is our routine. Perhaps he takes insult that you have not ridden him of late.” Kinfairlie’s ostler smiled. “He is a cursed proud steed.”

Alexander chuckled in his turn. “That is true enough.” He scratched the steed’s ear. “Have you been neglected of late, your highness?”

Uriel snorted and tossed his head anew. It was not uncommon for Uriel to make his feelings known, though it was uncommon for him to pursue the matter unduly. The steed oft made a token protest but always surrendered to Alexander’s command.

This time, he protested at length. Alexander could not fathom why. The stallion exhaled mightily. His eyes flashed even as Alexander spoke soothingly to him. His back hoof stamped the ground in fury.

“I will brush him before I ride, for that soothes him,” Alexander said.

“He has been groomed, my lord.”

“All the same, a familiar touch can be reassuring.” At Alexander’s word, a groom fetched the brush. Alexander brushed the horse, liking the rhythm of this task. Tynan had always told him to make acquaintance with a horse before riding it, to win its trust each time with attention. So, oblivious to the watchful household, he spoke to Uriel of nonsensical matters, then took to the saddle with resolve.

Uriel reared.

The stallion fought the bit, he whinnied in a fury such as Alexander had never witnessed in him. The ostler swore and made to seize the reins but failed, the company backed away.

Uriel kicked, he tossed his head, he fairly spat in his indignation. He took every effort to throw Alexander from the saddle. It was as if another horse, a demon steed, had been substituted for the beast Alexander knew and loved so well.

He fought to command the horse, but the steed might never have borne a saddle. It was shocking, for Uriel had shown spirit, but he had never fought Alexander as he did in this moment.

Uriel bolted, leaving the astonished company of Kinfairlie far behind. He ran like the wind, desperate to escape some torment that Alexander could not name. Alexander heard the company shout and the hunting party give chase, he heard the familiar bellow of his ostler, but he merely hung on.

He feared that Uriel would run clear to London or drop of exhaustion en route, but the beast would not heed any command to halt. Alexander’s choices were few: he could allow himself to be thrown, or he could hang on. He gripped his knees tightly and hunkered low, working with Uriel’s rhythm, hoping the beast would tire himself. He spoke constantly to the horse, hoping the low murmur of his words would reassure him.

Uriel showed no signs of being reassured. Alexander used his knees to urge the steed to curve his course toward the sea, thinking that the stallion would halt when the way before him was not flat.

At first, it seemed the horse would defy his command, but his training ran too deep and he could not deny the command in the pressure of Alexander’s knee against his right side. Uriel turned, the coast rose ever closer, Alexander urged the beast down a point that jutted into the sea just north of Kinfairlie proper.

If the horse did not stop on this point, they would both be sorely injured.

Alexander took the gamble, though feared its import when Uriel did not slow his pace. The crest of rocks on the lip of the point drew closer and closer, and yet closer again. Alexander’s heart leapt in fear that they would soon be in the sea.

Then Uriel stopped cold, planted his hooves against the ground and ducked his head. Alexander, unprepared for this move, was cast over the steed’s head.

He flew head over heels. He endeavored to land upon his feet, but all happened too quickly.

Instead Alexander landed upon his buttocks and roared in pain. He then hit his head and both elbows on the rocks, bouncing as if he were no more substantial than a figure wrought of husks.

Finally he fell still. Alexander laid back and groaned. He would be black and blue, to be sure. He was not anxious to rise and assess the damage to his person.

At least, he was out of Uriel’s saddle and he was not quite dead. The horse snorted at close proximity, uninjured. That, he supposed, was the best that could be made of this matter.

Much worse, it would prove, could come of this event.

Chapter Eleven

Owen’s dismay knew no bounds, for his laird and master had been injured by a steed beneath Owen’s care. He was somehow responsible for Uriel’s foul deed, of that Owen was certain. So it was that Kinfairlie’s ostler reached Laird Alexander first.

Owen fell upon his knees beside his fallen laird and said a prayer when his laird opened his eyes and winked at him.

“It is clear that I have forgotten all that ever I knew of steeds, Owen,” the laird jested, making it clear that he did not blame the ostler for events. He was uncommonly kind in that way, this son of the old laird, and his graciousness only redoubled Owen’s determination to see this mystery solved.

“It was a clever ploy to lead him here, my lord. I feared he would run the length of Christendom and tire himself to death.”

“As did I, Owen.” The laird moved tentatively and winced. He then grinned at the ostler, his charm and good humor clearly unaffected by his fall. “Though I do not think my concern for his welfare was repaid in kind.”

Owen did not smile. “It is not like Uriel, my lord. I cannot think of what came over him.”

“True enough. It has been decades since I have been tossed from a saddle, and never has Uriel taken such exception to me.” The laird frowned. “Did he flee?”

“He lingers, my lord, stamping his feet and shaking his head. He is in a sweat, to be sure, and trembles mightily. He perhaps is too tired to flee further.”

“Then go to him, Owen, and see if your touch soothes him. You have a way about you that a restless beast oft welcomes.” Again, the laird’s mischievous smile flashed. “I believe I will remain here for the moment. The view is most fine.”

How like the laird to tempt the smile of others while he himself clearly felt pain! It was no wonder that men served him with such fervor.

Owen bowed and rose to his feet, then approached the black stallion with caution. Uriel stamped and exhaled noisily, his temper riled as it had not been when Owen himself saddled him. What ailed the beast? Owen knew horses and he knew this one and he knew there had to be a reason for Uriel’s manner.

Then he saw the blood. Three streams of ruby red blood stained the stallion’s side.

Owen pivoted in terror, but his laird did not obviously bleed, and such a quantity of blood as this would have stained his garb.

Uriel was injured! How could this be?

The rest of the party arrived noisily, their cries making the stallion dance away from them. Owen shouted for the ostler from Ravensmuir to aid him, as well as the three stoutest grooms in his service. They enclosed the stallion in a tightening circle, then Ravensmuir’s ostler seized the reins. He held the reins fast and the boys stilled the horse with their hands as Owen hastily unbuckled the saddle and lifted it away.

Uriel shuddered from head to tail at its removal, and Owen immediately saw why. Three thorns there were, each as long and nigh as broad as the last digit of his thumb, each embedded in the underside of the saddle. Owen had never seen the like of them.

The blood ran cleanly and the wounds were not as deep as they could have been, but still it was a horror to look upon Uriel’s damaged flesh.

“When Laird Alexander took the saddle, the points of the thorns were driven into Uriel’s flesh,” Ravensmuir’s ostler said, his expression that of a man sickened by what he saw.

Owen lifted his gaze to meet that of his peer. “But I saddled Uriel myself, and I swear by the grace of God that these thorns were not there.” His bile rose at the injury done to the horse. “I would never have committed such wickedness. I would never have seen a steed willfully injured, you must all know as much!”

Uriel bent and nibbled at Owen’s hair, perhaps sensing the ostler’s consternation, perhaps grateful that the ostler had removed the thorns.

Ravensmuir’s ostler smiled, the expression softening the harsh lines of his face. “The horse absolves you, Owen, though that leaves us no closer to knowing who did the deed.”

“Alexander!” The cry of the laird’s new lady wife echoed over the company. She cast herself from the saddle of a palfrey with the ease of one accustomed to riding, flung her reins aside and ran to her husband.

“I thought she feared horses,” muttered one of the grooms.

“She rides with the ease of one who has ridden all of her life,” said Ravensmuir’s ostler.

“And her maid was in the stables,” said another boy. The other four looked to him in surprise. “I saw her. She said she came to see the fabled horses of Ravensmuir, but she went from one stall to the next with great diligence, as if she sought a particular horse.”

“And the laird showed the lady his own steed before the midday meal,” mused Ravensmuir’s ostler, before meeting Owen’s gaze.

“And I left the laird’s horse alone once he was saddled, cursed fool that I am, for I fetched Uriel an apple.” Owen rubbed the beast’s nose as the five frowned in unison. “Would that you could tell us what you had witnessed, my friend.”

“The laird must know of this,” declared Ravensmuir’s ostler.

Owen watched the lady exclaim over the laird’s wounds and wondered if he was the sole one who recalled the charges of Alan Douglas in this moment. What scheme had the lady? What shadow in her heart was eclipsed by her bright beauty?

* * *

Eleanor felt the absence of goodwill in her husband’s household the very moment that it was rescinded. Alexander, to her relief, was not sorely injured, though she had feared greatly for him.

“I am sufficiently cocky to withstand such a blow to my pride,” he jested as his brother aided him to his feet. Eleanor did not miss how he winced when he put his weight upon his foot, or how he stretched his back with a grimace, but at least none of his bones were broken.

“It is not your cock that I fear for,” she retorted, wanting only to see his smile.

“No? I thought you yearned for a son.”

Eleanor flushed at that and Alexander laughed. Then he sobered suddenly, granting her a stern look. “How did you come to be here so quickly as this? Surely you did not ride?”

And Eleanor realized her error. She had not thought of her earlier lie, she had thought only of pursuing Alexander, of trying to ensure his welfare. She straightened, not knowing what to say, and found suspicion in every face turned toward her.

Alexander alone watched her with a knowing gleam in his eye, as if he were not surprised by these tidings. He stepped closer, unable to stifle a wince, though he raised a hand to ward off her assistance.

Eleanor knew she would have little chance to repair her mistake. “I lied to you,” she admitted softly and Alexander’s expression hardened.

“I know.” His tone was cold. He arched a brow, his gaze unswerving. “And this after you pledged honesty to me.”

Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face. She found only anger in Alexander’s stony expression and knew that she stood before a judge who had no reason to grant her mercy. She had lied to him, she had deceived him, she had sheltered him from the truth simply because it was ugly. Now her efforts to ensure that this marriage had a chance to find its footing would destroy that marriage.

Unless she could persuade Alexander to grant her a hearing. She recalled belatedly that his most furious response had been to the revelation that he had been the victim of a lie and knew her position to be perilous.

She might well have lost his support forever in this choice, though she knew she could not have done otherwise. She thought again of Blanchefleur and was sickened by the persistent taste of her own dark past.

Kinfairlie’s ostler came to Alexander in that moment, three bloody thorns upon his palm and accusation in his expression. “These were beneath the saddle, my lord. They were not there when I saddled Uriel, but I left him before your arrival to fetch him an apple. Thomas declares that my lady’s maid, the one newly arrived, was in the stables then, and that she checked each stall as if seeking a specific steed.”

Alexander’s expression was grim. “What do you say, Owen? I bid you speak your thoughts clearly.”

“I make no accusation, my lord, for I have no evidence, but it seems that matters add together in a most cunning way. You introduced your lady to your steed before the midday meal, and her maid was found seeking a steed at the time that thorns were placed beneath your steed’s saddle.” The ostler squared his shoulders. “You might have been cast to your death, my lord, for these are doughty thorns, and thus I cannot help but recall the charge made by Alan Douglas on Christmas Day in our own chapel.”

Alexander’s features might have been set to stone. He spoke with quiet heat. “Then surely you recall that he too could offer no evidence to support his charge against the lady.”

Eleanor felt her lips part. Did he defend her?

Owen’s expression turned grim. “You are a kind laird, and one who has been good to me, and thus, sir, I would be so bold as to continue to speak my thoughts, though you may not welcome them. I fear for your survival. Your lady wife admits herself to knowing of poisons and there have been two poisonings in our hall since her arrival. She admits herself to having buried two husbands and rumor would have one believe that at least one of them died before his time. And though it is true that there is no proof of this, the lady shows herself a liar by her own deed.” He pointed to the palfrey Eleanor had ridden. “I heard her tell you this very morn that she feared horses, yet she rode with uncommon ease just moments past.”

“Perhaps my laird is uncommonly persuasive in easing my fears,” Eleanor dared to suggest.

“Perhaps my lady told a falsehood,” the ostler retorted, his gaze hard and his words sharp. “No one learns to ride as you just did in a matter of hours. You have ridden from the time you could reach the stirrup, upon this I would wager my very soul, and there is not a scrap of fear within you for horses, upon that I would also wager.”

“You overstep yourself, Owen,” Alexander said softly.

“I mean no impertinence, my lord...”

“Yet you are impertinent.”

“I would only see you warned, my lord, if you cannot see the portent yourself. Is it not the duty of a man sworn to a laird’s service to repay that laird’s goodness with tidings, even if they be ill?”

“If it is so, then such tidings should not be surrendered before the entire company,” Alexander said quietly. “I respect your intent, Owen, but it is churlish to speak ill of the lady of a keep before all those who serve her. Had you proof of your charge, that would be another matter, but in this, you repeat only rumor and innuendo.”

“Forgive my so saying, my lord, but it is more than rumor.” With that, Owen placed the three thorns in Alexander’s hand. “With your forgiveness, my lord, I would tend Uriel’s injury.”

Alexander inclined his head and Owen spared Eleanor a cold glance before he turned away. Alexander, she noted, turned the bloody thorns in his hand and his expression became grim.

“Owen,” he said quietly and the ostler halted, though he turned only after a pause. “Do not imagine that I do not welcome your tidings, even if they be ill. My father taught me simply that no laird or lady should be condemned in his or her own hall. There have been unconventional choices made by my kin and rumors aplenty of their intent, though not a one of them has had a black heart. Matters are not always what they seem, this was my father’s counsel.”

Owen would have spoken but Alexander held up a finger for silence. “This matter will be resolved, upon that you may rely, and if there are charges and if there is evidence, then we shall hear all of it in Kinfairlie’s court. Until that time, I counsel you and your fellows to speak of my lady with respect.”

Owen seemed to fight his urge to argue the matter. His gaze flicked between laird and lady, then he inclined his head. “As you say, so shall it be, my lord.”

Alexander nodded crisply, then turned to his castellan. “We shall return to Kinfairlie, Anthony, and I shall retire to my chambers for the remainder of the day.”

“Very good. I shall send for a physician, my lord.”

“There is no need, Anthony. I am sufficiently hale to survive.” Alexander gave Eleanor a look so cold that she was chilled to her very marrow, then turned away.

Her marriage was over, unless she set matters aright.

“No!” Eleanor cried when they might have abandoned her there. “No. This matter cannot be left as it stands. It is true that I lied to you about my fear of horses, but I would surrender the truth to all of you. I would do it now.”

The ostlers and squires paused and turned, clearly incredulous. Alexander watched Eleanor, his expression inscrutable, and she knew that all hung in the balance.

The sooner she made her confession, the better.

“Surely this can wait, my lady,” Anthony suggested. “I would see my lord made comfortable.”

“And I would see the truth granted its hearing,” Eleanor argued. “It is late for me to confess as much, and I know it, but I would redress the matter now, before you all, before another moment passes.” She took a shuddering breath. “I hope for nothing more than that you all stand witness to the fact that my suspicions are groundless.”

“Suspicions?” Anthony echoed in confusion. “What suspicions have you of us?”

Eleanor squared her shoulders. “Let me tell you of it.”

* * *

Alexander watched his lady with mingled awe and pride. She stood as straight as a finely wrought blade, her chin high and her bearing regal. She spoke clearly and with conviction, her words carrying over the company with ease. The sunlight glinted on the gold of her hair, for her veil had been lost in her pursuit of him, and burnished her finely wrought features. She was beautiful and pained and his heart ached at her courage.

“Once there was a woman whose father saw her wedded to a man many years her senior,” she said. Alexander knew full well who that woman was, and saw that others in the company had also guessed as much. “She was twelve summers of age, while he had seen two and sixty summers. He was a corpulent man, enamored of the pleasures of the table and one disinclined to deny himself any indulgence. He was rumored to be cruel, albeit in a cunning way, but he was a comrade of the maiden’s father and she chose to believe that he could not be guilty of what was whispered of him.”

She nodded slightly. “And truly, the evidence seemed to support her faith in him, for he was kind to her. She had brought a palfrey of her own with her when she joined his household, a steed of chestnut hue with a white star upon her brow. As a young girl, she had thought the mark looked more like a flower and so she had called the horse Blanchefleur. The steed was treated well in her lord husband’s stables, though he oft teased her that she loved the beast more than she loved him.”

Eleanor looked down at her slippers for a moment. “She denied this, though she feared that he had discerned her secret. It would have been uncommon indeed for such a young woman to have held such a man as he in her most ardent affections.” She swallowed and looked over the company. “And so it was that the maiden was relieved beyond belief when she learned that she bore her husband’s child. He had made it known that he wished for nothing more than a son, and she hoped that she might fulfill his desire.”

Alexander frowned at this reference to a son. Was this where Eleanor had learned her insistence upon a babe of that gender?

“But Fortune did not smile upon the maiden. The babe was only five months in her womb when her water broke. She fought against her labor, not wanting to surrender the prize her husband sought, but the babe came all the same. It was small, it was wizened and red, it was dead.” She licked her lips. “And it was a boy.”

The ostlers fidgeted at this unwelcome detail, and Alexander noted that sympathy lit the gaze of more than one of them. He waited, for he guessed the loss of the child, even so late in her pregnancy, was not the origin of whatever scar Eleanor retained of those events.

“The maiden feared the reprisal of her spouse, but he was charming. He was solicitous and sympathetic. He urged her to lie abed, to recover, to eat tempting morsels. He coaxed her smile when she felt she had no reason to smile. Indeed, he proved himself to be more gallant than she had ever imagined, and she faulted herself for not having seen his merit. Three days after this sorry loss of their child, he announced that he had prepared a feast in his wife’s honor.”

There was a murmur in the company at this. Eleanor looked over the sea, her eyes narrowed, though still she recounted her tale. “No expense was spared, to the maiden’s astonishment, for she could not understand why her deed was so worthy of celebration. The hall was filled to bursting with nobles and neighbors, all in their finest garb. The board groaned with the quantity of food prepared and her husband insisted that all drink to the maiden’s health. She was grateful for his understanding and newly determined to provide him with his son.

“Then the great dish was served at the husband’s dictate, a stew that the maiden was told had been wrought for her own pleasure. It was laid before her with a flourish on the finest silver plate in their home. Her husband insisted that she eat first of it, that she eat heartily of it, for she would have need of her strength. Indeed, no one could eat a morsel of it before she had eaten all she could bear to consume.”

Eleanor’s teeth visibly set on edge. “It was strange stew, the like of which the maiden had never eaten. It was redolent with spices, for no expense had been spared in its preparation, yet the meat was odd.”

Owen the ostler turned away, his expression sickened.

“It was silky on the tongue, unctuous even, and the maiden had little taste for it. Her husband insisted, though, indeed he filled her trencher and stood beside her until she ate it all. And when she sat gorged with a meal she had not desired, he laughed and his was not a pleasant laugh. He grasped her elbows with force when he whispered in her ear, ensuring that she could not escape whatsoever he told her.”

“‘We have each lost what we loved best this week, which is a kind of justice’ he said and she did not understand his import. ‘You lost my son and the price to you is Blanchefleur.’ It was then that the maiden knew what she had eaten, what meat had wrought that stew.”

The ostlers roared at this travesty. “Barbarian!” cried the ostler from Ravensmuir.

“Death is too good for such a villain,” declared Owen.

Eleanor straightened. “And the maiden ran to the stables, even as her husband laughed at her dismay, for she could not believe that any soul could be so wicked. But Blanchefleur was gone and the ostler told her the truth of it. She vomited all that day and all that night as she wept in the stall that her beloved steed had occupied.” Eleanor lifted her chin, even as the tears streamed down her cheeks. “And so she resolved that she should never love another steed, the better that she could not cast that beast’s life in peril.”

She turned to Alexander, her cheeks wet. “I am sorry, for I lied to you. But the cook said there was need of meat, and that you would resolve the menu upon your return from the stables, and the ostler said you had a scheme for the foals and -” she took a choking breath “- and you insisted that you must make me a gift of one of these wondrous horses and I was afraid as I have never been afraid.” She ran a hand over her brow. “I am sorry, for I have the wits to know that no man would serve you so loyally as these men do, if you were of the ilk of Millard.”

“It was not your wits that fed your fear,” Alexander said quietly. He went to her side and took her hand within his, lowering his voice. “It was love and fear of its loss. It was your heart, Eleanor, the heart that you would feign to not possess.”

She stared at him, weeping yet still proud, and he kissed her palm even as she trembled before him. He folded her fingers over his salute, then pulled her fast against his side. He could see how difficult this confession had been for her—and indeed, it was a horrific one. What kind of man would do such a deed? Alexander could not think upon it.

He respected not only that Eleanor had faced her fear in surrendering a secret she held fast, but that she had done so for the sake of his trust.

“We return to Kinfairlie,” he said. “My lady and I will ride the palfrey she rode here and Uriel will be led.”

Owen the ostler stepped into their path, his manner contrite. “My lady, I beg your forgiveness for the charges I made against you this day. There is no person who could both feel such pain as you did in the loss of your palfrey and commit such a crime as that committed against Uriel.”

“Appearances were against me, Owen,” Eleanor said quietly. She clung to Alexander’s side, seemingly weakened by the tumult of her tale. “I appreciate as much and hope that you never cease to surrender such good counsel to my lord husband.”

“Never!” Owen bowed. “I would ask a boon of you, my lady.”

Alexander sensed his wife’s confusion, though he guessed what the ostler would ask. “Your request cannot be filled unless it is shared,” he said, when the ostler did not speak.

Owen spared a glance for Uriel, then cleared his throat. “It is said that a healer’s talents can be used for a horse as well as a man. Is there a salve you might make to see Uriel healed more quickly? I would not see him suffer unduly for some soul’s cruelty.”

Eleanor caught her breath and Alexander smiled. The other ostler and the squires stood and watched, approval in their eyes.

“You would trust me with this?” she asked, awed.

Owen nodded, his manner gruff.

“I would be honored,” Eleanor said, her words husky. “I would be proud to aid such a magnificent steed.” Owen smiled and bowed, then hastened away. Uriel meanwhile tossed his head, seemingly in agreement with this sentiment, and snorted with vigor.

Alexander smiled down at his wife, well pleased with what she had achieved this day.

“You have made a conquest of every man in my stables,” he teased beneath his breath. “And that with a single tale. I shall have to pray that you are sated with the attentions of one man alone.”

Eleanor turned her shining gaze upon him. “I can only hope that he will prove to be attentive indeed. Tell me, my lord husband, is there time for a sweet before the evening meal?”

* * *

She loved him.

It was as simple as matters could be and Eleanor marveled that she had not guessed the truth sooner. Eleanor loved Alexander, with his conviction that all was good, with his surety that honesty and good humor would make all come aright, with his determination to hear the whole of the tale before he rendered a judgment.

Alexander was fair, he was just, he was kind. She loved that those in his household served him with unswerving loyalty; she loved that he was protective of every creature, big or small, human or horse, who relied upon him.

She loved that he could be pensive or playful, that he was clever and unafraid to show his feelings. She loved that he cherished truth and honesty above all, and that he rewarded their surrender to him.

And that was but a smattering of what he offered to her. She loved that Alexander gave her the benefit of the doubt, as no soul ever had done, that he assumed that she had a reason for any deed she had committed. Alexander gave her choice, he gave her time, he treated her with honor and dignity.

He had persuaded her that the merit of what was offered by loving him far outweighed any risk. It was not an easy lesson for Eleanor and she did not doubt that she would err again in his company, but she knew that Alexander would always grant her the chance to remedy any misstep.

It was weighty boon he offered to her and one she welcomed. With ardent pursuit of her secrets, he had broken the last shield protecting her battered heart.

She wanted to show him as much, in the best way that she knew.

Moira met them at the base of the stairs, but Eleanor smilingly turned the maid away. “There is no need for your tally now,” she said, tugging at her husband’s hand.

Alexander followed her, only limping slightly, his eyes fairly glowing at her enthusiasm. “You are anxious to reach our chambers,” he teased. “It must be the lure of my ledgers.”

Eleanor laughed. “I am anxious to have your company to myself,” she retorted, not caring what any person made of her bold words.

Alexander grinned. “But I am injured...”

“And I know the best tonic to see you healed.”

Alexander sobered slightly. “You should know that I am not so determined to have a son as other men have been. Sons and daughters may come in their own time or they may not—their presence or absence changes nothing in a good marriage.”

“It is not solely a son for which I would strive!”

Moira wrung her hands at the base of the steps, not sharing the pair’s merry mood. “But my lady, there is another detail I would confide in you!”

“Later, Moira, later will serve well enough.”

“But...”

Deaf to the maid’s entreaties, Eleanor tugged her husband’s hand until he stood on the step immediately below her. She framed Alexander’s face in her hands, ran her thumb across his smiling lips, then kissed him fully.

She heard him catch his breath at her show of affection, then his arms were around her waist. He pulled her closer even as he opened his mouth beneath her assault. He let her take what she would have of him and Eleanor reveled in the awareness that she was not alone in responding to their embrace.

She broke their kiss reluctantly, only to find his eyes awash with stars. “You look so merry,” she whispered with wonder.

“How could a man not be merry, when his wife looks at him as you are looking at me?”

“How am I looking at you?”

His smile turned mischievous. “As if you mean to surrender more to me than a mere smile.”

Eleanor laughed. “I challenge you, sir, to take upon yourself another quest.”

“Another? Surely my lady’s esteem is well earned?”

Eleanor made a mock frown. “But not her smile. You said once that a courtesan’s smile could be encouraged with an intimate tickle abed. I doubt that you can see the matter done.”

She saw only the flash of his eyes before he caught her in his arms, then he took the remaining stairs three at a time. He kicked the door to their chamber closed behind them and kissed her with lingering abandon, holding her fast against his chest. Eleanor reveled in his embrace, in the complete banishment of her fear, and knew with utter surety that Fortune finally smiled upon her.

When they finally parted, she lifted the key from her belt and turned it in the lock with satisfaction. “I shall not loose you from this chamber before you succeed in your quest,” she teased, then granted him a wicked smile.

“Then we had best begin,” he said with enthusiasm. “For I cannot imagine that such a goal would be readily won.”

* * *

When Eleanor locked the door of the solar behind them, her smile was both shy and bold. She held Alexander’s gaze, her own eyes bright, even as her cheeks flushed with her audacity.

The lady was a marvel. Alexander loved the complexity of Eleanor, loved that she could be as regal as a warrior queen or as vulnerable as a new chick. She could defend him with the ferocity of a mother wolf, yet she surrendered to his kiss as softly as a blossom opens to the summer sun. He would never tire of her many moods, her quick wits, her ferocious defense of all she held dear.

She crossed the floor to him, reached up and cupped his chin in her hand. Her eyes were a clear brilliant green, devoid of shadows and mysteries. She regarded Alexander as if he was the marvel, then touched her lips to his.

Her kiss was both languid and impassioned. She coaxed his response with the slightest touch and offered him a caress that made his blood simmer. It was the first time that she had initiated an embrace that Alexander did not wonder whether she sought to distract him, that he had not feared, at least a little, that she gave of herself in body to keep the secrets of her thoughts from his perusal.

They crossed the floor toward the bed as if in a dance, moving as one with nary a word exchanged. They feasted upon each other’s lips, tasting and teasing, their hands running ceaselessly over each other. It was as if they met for the first time, as if they each mated for the first time in their days. Alexander was fairly deafened by the thunder of his pulse, and he felt a similar urgency in Eleanor’s heartbeat.

He undid the laces of her kirtle as she urged aside his tabard, kissing hungrily all the while. He shed his chemise while she kicked off her slippers, he loosed her chemise while she unlaced his chausses. He broke their kiss only to pull off his boots, watching as Eleanor shook out her hair.

She came to him, wearing naught but a smile, and pushed him back onto the mattress. She climbed atop him and kissed him fully, holding his hair as if she imagined he might try to evade her. The very notion would have made him laugh, had Alexander not had better deeds to do with his mouth.

Eleanor surrendered her all to Alexander, and did so with abandon. He could not believe the difference in her manner; he would never have believed that she had so much more to grant to him. Telling the tale of Blanchefleur and finding sympathy in his household, perhaps the first compassion she had ever been shown, seemed to have softened Eleanor. She opened herself to Alexander and gave of the feast that only she could offer.

And he was smitten in truth. He was in awe of his lady wife, of her strength and her ability to heal. He marveled that she had any shred of tenderness left within her, that she could even acknowledge the possibility that a man could offer more to her than all of the other men in her life had done.

He pleasured her as he had before and savored her eventual shout of release. She rolled atop him then, straddling him with her legs, her hair spilling around them like a curtain of gold. He caught her around the waist and lifted her above him, guiding her to sit atop him in truth.

Eleanor laughed, clearly delighted with this pose. “You are my captive, now,” she teased, her eyes dancing as he wished they always had done.

“And a willing one, to be sure.”

She moved, making him catch his breath. “I may never release you,” she threatened.

“No man of wit would yearn for release from such captivity.”

Eleanor laughed. She moved with deliberation, quickly discerning what best enflamed him. She leaned down and kissed him again, her tongue dancing within his mouth. She caught his nape in her hand, holding him beneath her kiss even as she rocked her weight atop him. Alexander caught her buttocks in one hand, then slipped his fingers between them.

“Together this time,” he told her between kisses and she caught her breath as he caressed her. They fitted together as if they truly had been wrought for each other, they moved together as if they had been created to dance solely with each other. Alexander watched passion put sparkles in his lady’s eyes, watched her cheeks flush as her arousal reached its peak. He himself was on the threshold of pleasure for what seemed a thousand years, as he waited for her to join him there.

She caught her breath suddenly and her eyes widened in pleasure. Her lips parted, her face flushed crimson, and before she could cry out, Alexander allowed himself to leap over that threshold alongside his lady wife. They shouted as one and clutched each other tightly, then in the wake of their release, she began to laugh.

“Surely my effort was not deserving of laughter,” he teased in a growl and she laughed all the louder.

“Not that! Anthony will be certain that you find uncommon pleasure with your ledgers,” she said.

Alexander chuckled, then kissed her slowly. He knew an uncommon conviction that all would be aright between them, that they would only learn more about each other in the years they were to share, that their match would only grow better with each passing day.

And that was prize enough for any man.

* * *

Elizabeth finally cornered Malcolm in the hall after the midday meal, and managed to have him to herself. He was the one who could aid in her quest, and she wanted the chance to persuade him to her side without Alexander’s counsel.

“Malcolm,” she murmured after they had exchanged pleasantries. “I have a boon to ask of you.”

Malcolm smiled. “Surely any boon should be asked of Alexander. I have nothing to my name save my own self, thus can grant little to a lady.”

Elizabeth gripped the cup of ale that she did not desire. “I want to go to Ravensmuir.” Malcolm started, but she hastened onward. “I must go to Ravensmuir. I must seek out Rosamunde and see to her welfare...”

Malcolm laid a hand upon her arm. “Elizabeth, Rosamunde is dead,” he said gently.

“No, no, it cannot be thus. How can you know? We have never found her corpse, nor that of Tynan. They could be alive still, in the rubble, awaiting our aid...”

“Elizabeth!” Malcolm spoke so firmly that Elizabeth fell silent. “No soul could survive the collapse of Ravensmuir’s labyrinth, much less do so for months. Further, it would be foolhardy to venture into the rubble, for one cannot tell how it might shift.”

Elizabeth sat back on the bench and regarded her brother unhappily. “You will not take me there.”

“Do not even imagine that you should go there alone.”

Elizabeth frowned and looked away, fighting against her tears of disappointment. “I thought you would want to retrieve Uncle Tynan’s body, to know for certain of his demise, to see him buried with honor if necessary.”

Malcolm reached across the table and seized her hands, compelling her to look at him. “Why do you desire to do this? What do you think to find? It has been months since their disappearance, Elizabeth.”

She sighed and studied their interlocked hands. There was nothing to be lost in confessing all of the truth. “I dream of Rosamunde, all the time. She is in the labyrinth and it is collapsing and she is summoning me to her aid.” She dared to meet Malcolm’s gaze, which was compassionate. “I have to go. I have to try to aid her.”

He shook his head and held fast to her hands. The warmth of him was reassuring. “It would be folly, Elizabeth, and you would not find what you would seek.”

“How can you know?”

“They are dead, though it is not easy to believe as much.” Malcolm sighed. “I did not tell any of you this, but I dreamed of Maman and Papa after their demise at sea. I dreamed that they were calling for my aid, and I dreamed that I failed them. I must have had this dream two hundred times.” He met her gaze steadily. “Uncle Tynan found out, because I awakened shouting more than once. He told me that it was grief that wrought a tale in my thoughts. He told me that it would pass as I grew accustomed to my new truth.”

“And did it?” Elizabeth’s mouth was dry, for she did not like his counsel.

“It did. I do not have this dream any longer.” He forced a smile and squeezed her hands tightly. “I shall make you a wager, sister mine. I shall depart at Epiphany to find my fortune and if, by the time I return, you are still plagued by this dream, then I shall take you to Ravensmuir.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Malcolm touched his cup to hers and Elizabeth drank with him. It was not what she had wanted of her brother, but as it was the best offer she was likely to have, Malcolm’s would have to suffice.

She hoped with vigor that Malcolm would not take overlong to find his fortune.

* * *

Alexander and Eleanor coupled thrice before they dozed, exhausted, within the shadows of the great bed. It had fallen dark outside and the first stars could be seen through the window.

Eleanor’s fair hair was cast across Alexander’s chest and her legs were entangled with his. Her hand was curled within his own, both hands over his heartbeat, and he felt the sweet rhythm of her breath against his flesh. The great bed smelled lustily of the pleasure they had conjured and shared. Although he was hungry, Alexander was so fatigued that he could see no compelling reason to stir.

Until Eleanor shivered. She nestled closer to him and he made to pull up the bedclothes. She yawned and made to sit up. “It is so late. I should fetch a morsel from the kitchens before all retire.”

“Do not be ridiculous. If you are hungry, I will go.”

“No, you are injured,” she said, her tone allowing no argument. She pushed him back, her hand in the midst of his chest, and he fell back as if boneless.

“I am not so injured as that.” He caught her around the waist and pulled her atop him. “And it would not be chivalrous to let you fetch a meal.”

“You have need of your strength,” she chided. “I want that son.” Alexander shook his head, marveling at her insistence upon this single matter, even as she shivered. “And you are beneath my care, as I am the healer in this chamber,” she said, scolding him with a wag of her finger.

She would have looked more solemn—and less endearing—if her hair had not been so disheveled and her bare breast not been so pert in the chill. Alexander caught the weight of her breast in his hand, then ran his thumb across the turgid peak. She shivered.

“You are too cold. It is my noble intent to warm you,” he said, then kissed her nipple.

Eleanor caught her breath and stretched like a cat beneath his caress. “It is your noble intent to meet abed yet again.”

“I will see you well pleased.”

“And so you already have!” she protested with a laugh. “We must have a morsel in our bellies, Alexander. You remain here, but you had best done some garb. It is cursed cold in this chamber and my father oft said that it takes heat to conjure a son.”

“Anthony has not been able to light the braziers with the portal locked against him,” Alexander said, impatient with her repeated references to sons. “Eleanor, understand that there is no need for haste in creating a child. Children will come in their time.”

“There is every need for haste,” she corrected. “Especially if you mean to grant your sisters the choice of whom they wed.” She rose from the bed, her pale flesh fairly glowing in the darkness, and scampered toward the pile of clothing they had cast on the floor.

“What is this?” Alexander was confused but she did not say more. “What do you mean about my sisters’ nuptials? What can our having a son possibly have to do with that matter?”

Eleanor searched through the garb even as the gooseflesh rose on her skin. She danced a little, for the floor was probably cold. “Oh, I shall be wrought of ice before I find my stockings!”

“It cannot matter what you wear.”

She gave him a look. “It always matters what the laird’s wife wears.”

“Women!” Alexander rose, but did not don the chemise she offered to him. “Wear whatsoever comes to hand!”

“No!” She regarded him with dancing eyes. “They still talk in the kitchens about me coming into the hall with slippers that did not match after our vows were consummated.”

Alexander grinned. “Your laces were bunched, as well. I recall fixing them.”

“How could you not have told me?”

“It was not your slippers I noticed.”

She granted him a glare that would have been more fearsome if her eyes had not twinkled so. “Then be of aid to me, lest all of Kinfairlie laugh at the laird’s smitten wife.”

He reached for her boots. “Don these first.”

She shook her head, her teeth fairly chattering. “Not those.”

“Whyever not? You are cold!”

“Because it is not proper to wear boots in the hall. I will wear slippers, if I can find them. Here is one stocking at least.” She rummaged without so much as a tinder lit to aid her in her task. He cursed, not for the first time, at the notions of women and their garb.

“You will wear slippers and be cold rather than breach some foolish convention?” He sat down on the trunk there, pulled her onto his lap and made to pull one boot onto her foot. “Eleanor, this is folly...” was all he managed to say before she cried out in pain.

He pulled off her boot and peered into it. There was something dark lurking in the fur lining. Eleanor sat silent on his knee, rubbing the base of her foot as he inverted her boot.

Two thorns spilled into his hand, thorns as large and as fearsome as those that had pierced Uriel’s hide. He glanced across the chamber but the three Owen had surrendered to him still rested on the opposite table.

This additional pair lurked in her boot—the boot she had not wished to don—as if hidden there. The key to the chamber glinted upon her belt, discarded in a coil by his very feet.

Eleanor gasped and Alexander met her gaze. Days past he might have taken her expression as one of guilt, for some dark scheme had been discovered. “I suppose I am to think that you had too many thorns for your purpose this day, that you saved some for a similar feat on another day,” he mused and she caught her breath. “You did not, after all, wish to don your boots. A man could believe that you knew the thorns to be hidden there.”

Eleanor scarce breathed while Alexander rolled the thorns across his palm. But if she had known about these thorns, if she had been the one to injure Uriel, then she had not only tried to kill him—perhaps twice—but had lied him over and over again.

It could not be so.

Alexander wanted the marriage he had tasted this very afternoon. He wanted the match they had only begun to share—and that meant that he must trust his lady wife, just as she had shown that she trusted him.

He held the thorns before his ashen wife. “Have you a better explanation?”

Eleanor rose to her feet, looking small and fragile. Her gaze fell on the key tied to her own belt. Then she looked at him, fear in her eyes. “I have none,” she whispered. “I know nothing of them, certainly not from whence they came.”

Alexander rose to his feet. “Then we must find who in the household seeks to see you blamed for what you have not done.”

Eleanor’s features lit with such pleasure that he knew he had chosen aright. She cast herself toward him but he had no chance to savor her embrace.

For the sentries blew their horns with force in that moment, and men shouted in the bailey. “Kinfairlie is besieged!” roared one man and Alexander hastened to the window.

It was true. A veritable army rode toward the keep, the moonlight glinting off their armor and their unsheathed blades. They were numerous and fully armed, their company stretching into the distance. Alexander’s heart sank, for he doubted their force could be turned aside.

“Unlock the portal!” he cried to Eleanor. “We are attacked.” He donned his chemise, his chausses, and threw open the trunk containing his mail even as he donned his boots. He heard a shout at the gates and knew he had no time to properly arm himself.

“But it is the peace of Christmas...”

“Our assailants seem not to care.” Alexander shrugged into his tabard and snatched up his blade. Eleanor meanwhile unlocked the portal, her eyes wide with fear. “Find some garb to cover yourself, gather with my sisters, and see this portal barred against all assailants,” he bade her and she nodded understanding.

Then she seized his sleeve. “But surely you will be triumphant?”

“Surely it is only good sense to be cautious. Secure yourself with my sisters,” he said, then caught her nape in his hand. He kissed her deeply, lingeringly, then departed the solar in haste.

Alexander lunged down the stairs, taking them three at a time, sparing only a moment to hammer on the door of the chamber his sisters shared. “Lock yourselves, all of you, in the solar,” he bade Vera, then made haste to the hall.

There was already the clash of steel against steel and the smell of blood in his own hall. Alexander was not the only one to have been surprised. This battle, he feared, would be decided quickly and not in his favor.

He leapt into the fray, swinging his blade at a mercenary. He had done his best for Kinfairlie, he would do his best until his dying breath, but he feared in this moment that his best had not been enough.

This battle would be the reckoning that he had long expected, and Alexander Lammergeier hoped that he would be the only one to pay the price for his own failure.

Chapter Twelve

Eleanor had no intention of waiting meekly in the solar while her husband faced certain slaughter in the hall below. There had to be some deed that could be done to aid him.

Whosoever attacked was a villain, to be sure, for no man violated the injunction against battle on the Holy Days of the year. Eleanor feared that she knew who that villain might be, for she had lived closely with a family of villains, one of whom had already shown himself to be interested in her fortunes.

Alan Douglas.

Annelise and Elizabeth and Isabella arrived in the solar in their chemises, with their hair unbound, chattering all the while. They each carried some trinket or another, as well as their own cloaks and boots. Their eyes were wide with fear. Vera came behind them with an armload of sturdy woolen kirtles, muttering as she gathered them like wayward chicks.

“Lock the portal, my lady,” she instructed as she dumped the clothing onto a trunk. “We are all here, now, and there is little else to be done. I would have you maidens don your kirtles and boots, the better that you be prepared for whatever occurs.”

“But what could occur?” Annelise asked with a shiver.

“Garb yourself,” Isabella said tersely. “If Alexander does not win, this night will not be an amusing one for us.”

Vera’s lips tightened at that.

“We must be able to defend ourselves,” Elizabeth said, looking about the chamber.

“What weaponry has Alexander?” asked Isabella. They showed a familiarity with their brother’s possessions that surprised Eleanor, but then she had never had any sibling with whom to share. In moments, they had rummaged through his trunk of weapons and each sister held a blade more doughty than her own eating knife.

“I say we should join the battle,” Elizabeth said. “Alexander has need of every blade he can muster on this night.”

“No, no, no!” Vera cried. “There will be no maidens under my care in a hall filled with fighting men.”

“Or there will be no maidens at all in the morn,” Eleanor concluded. The maid nodded but the sisters caught their breath as one. Isabella parted her lips to ask a question, but Eleanor glared at her. “A rape is no way to learn of matters abed,” she said with resolve and that sister fell silent.

Annelise crossed herself and sat down, pale with fear.

The sounds of swordplay grew louder, and more men shouted. Torches could be seen burning in the bailey, and to Eleanor’s amazement, a group of people marched toward the keep from Kinfairlie village. They carried scythes and knives, clubs and hoes, and their expressions were grim.

“There is the miller and his son Matthew,” said Annelise, her tone indicating that she shared Eleanor’s surprise.

“The tanner and his apprentice, and the blacksmith,” said Isabella, forcing her way closer to the window.

“God in heaven,” Vera whispered.

“Look! There is Father Malachy!” Elizabeth said, pointing as she did so. The maid snatched back the maiden’s hand, lest her presence at the darkened window be discerned. “And the baker and the shepherd and even the silversmith.”

“But it is neither their right nor their duty to fight,” Eleanor said. “Such is the order of men: those who work, those who pray, and those who fight.”

Vera granted her a wry glance. “Such is the order in some realms to be sure. Can a man not be expected to raise a blade in defense, regardless of his calling, when his own abode is at risk?”

“They will be slaughtered,” Eleanor whispered. “Such tools are no match to the swords and blades of knights. They have no training and they have no armor either.”

“Alexander has no armor, either,” Elizabeth retorted. “This battle is unfair in every way. I am glad the town comes to our aid.”

“They have their love of Kinfairlie,” Annelise said softly. “And that is no small weapon.”

Eleanor hoped she was right.

A man shouted below and Eleanor knew that the villagers had been spied by Kinfairlie’s assailants. A dozen armed men turned upon the approaching group, laughing at the sight of them.

“We cannot simply wait here!” Isabella protested. “We must do something!”

Eleanor leaned out the window as scythe and sword clashed, hoping to see better how the villagers fared. She could not imagine them dying in the defense of Kinfairlie, but at the same time, she could well understand their loyalty to Alexander. She too would do any deed to see him and Kinfairlie secured. She stretched further and saw a familiar horse, the insignia on its caparisons fairly stopping her heart.

It was Alan Douglas.

She could stop this carnage. The realization came suddenly. Alan Douglas wanted only her, or more accurately, he desired only the legacy she would bring to him with the delivery of a son.

If she surrendered to Alan, the assault upon Kinfairlie would halt. As soon as Eleanor realized the truth, her choice was made. She pivoted and lifted the key from her belt. She unlocked the portal, Alexander’s sisters clustered about her in their excitement.

“What are we going to do?” Elizabeth demanded, her grip fierce upon her borrowed blade.

“You are going to remain here, as you have been bidden to do,” Eleanor said firmly. She placed the key within the maid’s hand and closed Vera’s fingers surely over it. “And you will lock the portal behind me. Open it only to Alexander.”

“But where are you going?” Isabella asked.

“To end this madness, for once and for all,” Eleanor said with resolve, then stepped out of the chamber. “Move the trunks against the portal,” she commanded. “The better that it cannot be forced open.”

Eleanor waited on the landing until she heard the key turn in the lock, listened for a moment to the unanimous protest of the three maidens. Vera ordered them to do as the lady had bidden them and Eleanor heard the heavy trunks sliding across the floor, then bumping against the door. She was pleased to see that they were not fragile maidens with no strength beyond that necessary to thread a needle. Once she was confident that they were as safe as she could make them, she marched down to the hall.

Alexander, Kinfairlie, and all the people pledged to serve both had need of the sacrifice only she could make. Eleanor would not regret making it, not for a moment, for she believed it would see this haven and its laird saved from certain destruction.

That would be a sufficiently potent legacy for any woman.

* * *

The hall was thick with smoke. Someone had dropped a torch into the strewing herbs upon the floor, but they were so freshly cut that they smoked rather than burned. Only a few other torches burned, so the hall was full of shadows. Malcolm peered through the tangle of men and tried to make sense of who was who.

One matter was for certain: only those who attacked wore armor, for no man in Kinfairlie had had time to don his mail. Malcolm saw his brother come down the stairs and with characteristic confidence, step directly into the fray. Alexander had dispatched two men and rounded upon another by the time Malcolm reached his side. They fought more or less back to back, cutting a swath through the hall.

“I trust you slept well,” Alexander said to Malcolm, as if they rose on a peaceful morn to break bread together. He grunted as he drove his sword into the gut of a mercenary.

“Quite well,” Malcolm replied, his tone genial. “Though I must admit I did hear some ruckus in the midst of the night. He swung his blade at a mercenary’s knees, and that man fell. He rounded quickly and jabbed the point of his sword into the eye of a man who had tried to sneak up beside him.

“Rats,” Alexander said, as if confiding a sorry secret of his hall. “We are besieged by them at the most uncommon times.”

He whistled a warning to his brother, who understood the signal as no others did. Not for nothing had these two brothers sparred together for years!

Malcolm ducked in the nick of time as Alexander’s blade slashed over his head, then struck an assailant’s elbow. That man howled and dropped his blade. Malcolm picked it up, then tossed it to Alexander, who was more adept at fighting with both hands.

Alexander circled another mercenary, both blades swinging, as he continued in a most conversational tone. “Like all vermin, they must be diligently hunted and excised.”

“Ah, so that was why I heard swordplay,” Malcolm said. He parried the thrust of another man, their blades locking so that their wrists almost touched. “Oh, look there!” Malcolm said to his opponent, who was fool enough to do so. Malcolm dispatched him with a blow while he was so distracted.

“We are plagued by particularly large and vile vermin this year,” Alexander said with a shake of his head. He and his assailant met in a furious clash of steel on steel. Alexander grunted and jabbed, and cast the man’s corpse aside. “I only apologize that such necessities interrupted the slumber of a guest.”

“And there is the largest vermin of them all,” Malcolm said, nodding toward the gates. Alan Douglas had just crossed beneath the portcullis. He pushed up his visor, his strangely pale features seeming to glow in the shadows, and looked over the company. His gaze fell on Alexander and he smiled his cruel smile, apparently in anticipation of an easy victory.

“The king of the rats himself,” Alexander muttered and strode to confront his attacker. “He will not steal the finest morsel from my table so readily as that.”

The two leapt at each other and Malcolm valiantly tried to defend Alexander’s back. His brother moved quickly to engage with Alan, though, so quickly that Malcolm was snared by a mercenary determined to see him dead.

The mercenary struck a fierce blow that took Malcolm to his knees. Malcolm feigned greater injury than he felt, then slashed upward. His opponent was caught by surprise and the blade slipped beneath the bottom of his jerkin. Malcolm plunged the blade deep, then pulled it out and kicked the man’s corpse aside.

By that time, Alexander was surrounded by three men as well as Alan. It was not a fair fight and though Alexander was a competent swordsman, Malcolm could see the sweat on his brother’s brow.

Malcolm leapt into the skirmish with a bellow and distracted the men sufficiently that Alexander felled one with a telling strike.

“One rat less in my abode,” Alexander said through gritted teeth, then parried the blow of another assailant. Alan struck in that moment, taking advantage of the fact that Alexander was engaged, but Alexander still had the second blade in his left hand. He swung it even as he drove his own sword into the mercenary’s throat and Alan yelled as he retreated.

Blood ran from Alan’s ear, Malcolm noted with a quick glance. He was busy himself, for the fourth man who had been attacking Alexander turned upon Malcolm. They fought with ferocity, then the mercenary pivoted abruptly to swing his blade at Alexander. Malcolm whistled, his brother ducked, and the heavy blade swept over Alexander’s head to strike down his opponent.

“That was neatly done,” Alexander said with a grin. He nodded to the mercenary still before Malcolm. “I thank you for your timely contribution.”

The mercenary roared in fury and lunged at Alexander, who halted that man’s bloody blade with his own. They struggled back and forth, neither gaining any quarter against the other, then Alan stepped out of the shadows.

He smiled and Malcolm began to shout a warning, but too late. Alan’s swinging blade struck Alexander on the back of the head.

Alexander’s eyes widened briefly, then he fell so hard that Malcolm feared the worst. Blood pooled around Alexander’s body with alarming haste.

“No!” Malcolm cried, but the mercenary turned upon him, a deadly gleam in his eye. Malcolm ducked his blow, then stepped closer to the man. The man’s eyes widened, so startled was he by Malcolm’s proximity, but his eyes widened more when he felt Malcolm’s knife blade slide into his throat.

It was a trick that Alexander had taught Malcolm, to step inside the swing of a blow, and though it was a marvel to see it work in a desperate situation, Malcolm wished his brother might have witnessed its success. He turned upon Alan, intent upon seeing that man dead, but in that same moment, a woman shouted.

“No!” she cried. “Cease your assault!”

Alan looked toward the stairs, a knowing smile upon his face. He lifted his hand and called for the fighting to halt, as calmly as if he called for more salt at the board.

Malcolm turned, followed Alan’s gaze, and saw Alexander’s wife, Eleanor, standing on the third to last stair. She looked out of place, her garb so perfect that she might have been appearing at the king’s court for dinner, not stepping into the midst of a bloody battle. Her poise was also perfect, her stance regal, her composure complete.

Only her pallor revealed her distress.

She descended the last of the stairs from the solar without hesitation. She walked through the hall, as fair as a wraith, as unexpected as an angel. She paid no heed to whatsoever as strewn beneath her feet and she did not stumble.

The men fell back to grant her passage, seemingly so astonished by her presence that they let their blades fall by their sides. Malcolm did not doubt that her manner was a greater power than Alan’s command.

Her footsteps only faltered when she neared the red pool of blood surrounding Alexander. She halted as the first fissure showed in her composure. She made a little sound, a gasp of pain, and her head bowed as if to hide her tears. She stood between Malcolm and his fallen brother.

Malcolm did not doubt that Alexander’s wound was fatal but Eleanor would have stepped into the blood. She would have gone to Alexander’s side, but Alan shouted at her. “Do not touch him. His fate is sealed, as is yours.”

Eleanor hesitated for a moment and Malcolm could see how she found her urge to defy the other man’s command.

“What do you think you can do to me now?” she asked softly.

Alan chuckled though it was not amiable.

Eleanor exhaled, the steel leaving her shoulders with that breath. “I am sorry, beloved,” she whispered to Alexander, her words uneven. Malcolm could not imagine for what she apologized, for the blame for this assault could not be laid at her feet.

Or could it?

To Malcolm’s astonishment, she then addressed him though she faced Alan. “I would ask you, Malcolm, to inform that witch Jeannie that if she does not see her laird healed from this malady, she will have me to fear.” Her words were uttered with such conviction that Malcolm did not doubt she would do be vengeful indeed. “Whether I find her in this world or the next, my vengeance for any incompetence she shows in this matter will be so fierce as to make her wish she never drew breath.”

Malcolm nodded. “I will so do.”

Eleanor looked down at Alexander and he saw a glisten of tears upon her cheek when she turned to face Alan. “Alexander ensnared me with a kiss,” she said, her words husky, “while this man would capture me with a blade.” Eleanor granted Malcolm a glance, her eyes so vivid and piercing a green that he caught his breath. “A wise man knows which is the more formidable weapon.”

“Do you bow to the inevitable, then?” Alan demanded, raising his voice so that all could hear him.

“I will accompany you, if that is your meaning, but only so long as your men sheath their blades immediately,” Eleanor said, as if she had something with which to wager. “You will depart from Kinfairlie and not a one of you will ever cast a shadow across her lands again. These are my terms for accompanying you.”

Alan nodded. “Agreed.” He sheathed his blade, sparing a condescending glance to the man fallen before him. “Though we could have taken all we desired by force.”

“Only because you cheated,” Eleanor said with some heat. “On a level field, you would not have won an advantage so readily.”

“You speak boldly, for one who surrenders herself to my power,” Alan said with a scowl.

Eleanor smiled coolly. “I am only of worth to you so long as I live. We both understand that. You may claim my body, but you will never claim my heart, and you cannot silence my words.”

To Malcolm’s astonishment, Alan did not dispute this. Eleanor reached for Malcolm then, her hand closing around his wrist with vigor. “Be with him,” she counseled with quiet vigor. “No soul should pass through the veil without a familiar hand upon their shoulder.”

When Malcolm moved to do her bidding, he felt her push something hard and heavy into his hand. Instinctively he grasped it, without knowing what it was.

“Because your brother taught me that there are treasures with a value far beyond their price,” Eleanor murmured to him, ensuring that her words could not be overheard.

Malcolm guessed that none realized she had given him any token and closed his hand over it as if he held nothing at all.

She crossed the floor to a smirking Alan then, and Malcolm knew that he did not imagine that the lady shivered as she drew close to that villain’s side. She did not flinch from what had to be done, though, and true to Alan’s word, his men filed peacefully out of Kinfairlie’s hall behind him.

When they were gone and Malcolm finally opened his hand, he found a ring within his grasp. The emerald gem that his mother had worn as a sign of her nuptial pledge to his father, the gem that Alexander had used to seal his own vows, glinted back at him within his own palm.

And Malcolm understood then that Eleanor had surrendered herself to ensure Kinfairlie’s security, though still he did not imagine why Alan should content himself with solely the lady as his prize.

* * *

Alexander awakened in his own hall, a sea of faces crowded around him. One face was notably absent. His head throbbed with unholy vigor. His sisters were clustered around him, and Isabella burst into tears when his eyes opened. Someone washed the back of his head with a pungent concoction, the gestures rough but not unkind. He could smell the herbs within the solution and winced at the pain.

“I am not dead yet,” he said with feigned irritation, though it took much effort to do so. “Unless you mean to see that situation changed.”

“Praise be!” cried Rose, the cook’s wife. “The laird speaks!”

The people of Alexander’s household pushed closer then, their faces alight with relief. Elizabeth cheered and Annelise smiled through her tears, Isabella hugged Alexander so hard that it hurt but he did not complain.

“I thought you would have preferred me dead,” he teased Elizabeth and she flushed.

“You are not that bad,” she acknowledged. “At least not as yet.”

“There is no one better than a sister to ensure that a man’s vanity is kept within limits,” he muttered, then winked at her when she flushed crimson. She made to swat him, then thought better of her impulse and pulled back her hand. Alexander caught her hand and kissed her knuckles, appreciating her concern however it was expressed.

The effort left him dizzy, though still he laid upon the floor, and he knew he had been wounded indeed. He closed his eyes and laid back, and the nausea lessened. He recalled only facing Alan’s man, then an explosion of pain in the back of his head.

Then nothing. He looked again, but Eleanor was not yet in the company. Her absence had him rising, ignoring the pain that accompanied his movement.

A gnarled hand planted firmly on his chest and pushed him back toward the floor. “Alan Douglas is gone, my lord,” Jeannie said, mistaking the reason for his urgency. “There is naught to fear save your own welfare.”

“It is not Alan I would seek, but my lady wife.” Alexander made to rise again, but was no less successful. Indeed, it was galling that the ancient midwife could halt his intent with a single, albeit strong, hand. “What ails me?” he asked her quietly.

“A wound to the back of your head, my lord, and one that shed a great deal of blood. It looks to be worse than it is, though you will ache mightily for a few days even with my care.” She gave him a shrewd glance. “You do not look so hale, my lord.”

“I must seek my lady wife,” he said, seizing her hand with resolve and putting it aside.

“You need not trouble yourself, my lord. She, too, is gone from Kinfairlie,” Jeannie said with no small satisfaction.

Alexander rose unsteadily to his feet, despite the midwife’s protest. The hall swayed slightly when he did so, but Malcolm stepped to his side and claimed his elbow with a firm grip. Alexander seized his brother’s shoulder and fought to quell the protest of his very innards.

“Be warned, Jeannie,” Malcolm said. “The lady vowed to see you injured if her lord husband was not well tended and healed.”

Jeannie snorted. “She can scarce raise a hand against me while with Alan Douglas.” She smiled up at Alexander, her eyes glinting. “If no one will tell you the truth of it, my lord, then I will. Your faithless wife chose Alan Douglas over you, and that without a backward glance.”

“She did no such thing!” Malcolm protested.

“What do you know of women, particularly those to scheme to see their own advantage? Did she not leave willingly, her hand upon his arm?” Jeannie demanded. “I saw no shackles. I witnessed no struggle.”

“It was not as you would imply,” Malcolm insisted, his voice rising. “She sacrificed her own welfare for our own.”

Those in the hall began to murmur, even as they gathered closer to hear the details of this dispute. Alexander did not know what to think of Eleanor’s choice. Why had she accompanied Alan, after refusing to do as much just days past? She has said that he wished to wed her in Ewen’s stead, and Alexander had been certain that she did not share that desire.

“She abandoned her laird for what she saw as a better spouse,” Jeannie retorted. “Did she not put my lord’s ring in your custody?” The old healer cackled at Malcolm’s start of surprise. “I see more than most would believe possible, and now you know it to be true.”

“She meant only to see the gem safe,” Malcolm said, his defense of Eleanor warming Alexander’s heart. “She did not wish Alan to claim the ring.” His lips set and he held Alexander’s gaze. “She said there were treasures with a value beyond their price.”

Alexander’s hope surged at that echo of his own words. In truth, it was difficult to believe that Jeannie named the matter right, not after the mating he and Eleanor had shared the day before. He had been certain that she had been on the verge of surrendering her heart to him.

He intended to ensure that she had that chance.

“She thought you dead,” Malcolm said, stoic in his defense of Alexander’s bride. “She said she was sorry, though I know not for what, and she called you her beloved.” His jaw set. “Do not discredit a noble gesture, Jeannie, just because it was not your own.”

The old midwife propped a hand upon her hip. “So, now Jeannie is not to be believed, even though this woman who would call herself a healer could not discern that my lord yet breathed.” She sneered. “Or do you suggest that I brought him back from death with the sorcery of my potion? Is that how you would be rid of old Jeannie?”

“We have no desire to be rid of you,” Alexander said, though that was not entirely true.

“Alan forbade her to approach Alexander,” Malcolm said with force. “No healer could see all at a distance in the smoke-infested darkness of this hall! Grant credit where it is due!”

Jeannie snorted again. “And grant fault where it is due,” she cried. “Did she not leave with Alan Douglas? Did she not abandon our laird in his own blood? Did she not pull the ring that sealed her nuptial vows from her own finger?”

“Did Alan Douglas not leave Kinfairlie when she did so?” Malcolm asked, his voice falling low. “Did her deed not ensure that we all lived to see the morn?” The assembly caught their breath and Alexander watched his brother look over them. “Did she not extract a promise from Alan to honor our borders and leave Kinfairlie unscathed if she accompanied him? The lady surrendered herself to him to save us, this much is clear.”

“She is not what you would think her to be.” Jeannie pulled herself up to her full height. “Was the laird himself not poisoned on the night she arrived?”

“By your concoction, Jeannie,” Malcolm argued.

The old healer snorted. “A concoction that would have done him no injury had he eaten of the meal, instead of chasing her across the snow!” Glances were exchanged over this, seemingly emboldening the older woman. “I tried to warn her, that I did, by granting her a taste of her own treatment, but she managed to evade the lesson.”

Alexander frowned. “What is this you say? What warning did you grant?”

“The last of the wine that she said she claimed for you.” Jeannie snorted. “I knew she meant to savor it herself, and so I spiced it that she might have a taste of her own...”

“You mean the wine that Anthony drank?” Alexander asked, with dawning fury.

“You mean that you meant to see our lady fall ill?” Anthony himself demanded in outrage.

“It was a lesson,” Jeannie insisted. “And one that would not have killed any soul.” She shook a finger at Anthony. “She did not save you from any fate. You would have been healed all the same, with or without her deed.”

“Out!” Alexander roared. “Out of my hall! Jeannie, you will never cross the threshold of Kinfairlie’s keep again!”

There was a rumbling of assent through the hall, and nods were exchanged. A passageway was made for Jeannie, who did not seemingly believe that she was being cast out. Helping hands urged her toward the portal, and she began to mutter.

As soon as she was out the portal, all gazes turned to Alexander. “My lady has been unjustly maligned,” he said.

“And she has sacrificed herself to see us all safe from Alan Douglas,” Malcolm said.

“Such valor must have its reward,” Alexander agreed with surety. “We will ride in pursuit of the lady.”

The men in the hall grunted agreement and the miller stepped forward. “My lord, I would ride with you.”

“As would I,” declared his son, Matthew. “Indeed, I will walk to Tivotdale if it will help you fetch your lady.”

Alexander smiled but could not reply, so loud and numerous were the avowals of assent. Indeed, he was having trouble remaining on his feet and his vision was clouding. This injury would need time to heal before he could be of much aid to Eleanor.

“You will not ride soon,” Malcolm said quietly, evidently seeing his brother’s malaise.

Alexander wavered on his feet and Malcolm seized his elbow once more. “No, not soon,” he said, embarrassed by how much he had to rely upon his brother’s support. He raised his voice with an effort. “We will ride forth, upon that you may rely, though the time will remain to be decided. Indeed, we must wait until the twelve days of Christmas are past so that war can be conducted honorably.” He smiled for his company with his customary bravado. “By then, I assure you, I will not only be hale but will have a scheme.”

The company roared approval of this notion, but the hall swirled around Alexander in a drunken dance. He felt himself falling, felt shadows closing around him with frightening speed, then he knew no more.

“Determined fool,” he heard Anthony mutter, the castellan’s tone both scolding and affectionate. “He should not have been upon his feet with an injury like this. How can a man so clever prove himself such a fool?”

Fool. That single word gave Alexander an idea before the encroaching darkness swallowed him completely.

* * *

Eleanor was nigh sick with her fear. She did not like the line of Alan’s mouth or the set of his jaw. She did not like how he grasped her upper arm as soon as they were outside Kinfairlie’s hall and dragged her after him so roughly that she tripped.

His manner was too reminiscent of that of his brother.

But Alan was not drunk, as Ewen so frequently had been. Alan’s blow would not miss, he would not misjudge its target. He would not stumble. He would not fall into a stupor before he could injure her severely.

She saw Matthew on the ground, blood flowing from his arm and his face pale. His father leaned over him with concern, all the villagers appearing dazed.

“You must bind the wound,” Eleanor said, without a second thought. “Take a length of linen and tie it around his arm. Keep your fingers upon it and the flow of blood will stop.”

They looked up at her, so shaken that they did not understand her.

“A length of cloth!” Eleanor said, then reached for her own hem. “Here, I will give you one...”

“You will do no such thing,” Alan snarled and tightened his grasp. His grip was so tight that she cried out in pain, but he only dragged her toward his horse.

“My lady!” cried the miller.

“I will be well enough,” Eleanor said in haste, not wanting them to endure further injury. “Tend to Matthew. Bind his wound then take him to Ceara. He will be well if you tend him quickly.”

“What do you care for the health of an ignorant peasant?” Alan asked, his manner mocking. “Or was he the one you meant to wed next?”

Alan and his men found this comment amusing beyond expectation, though Eleanor did not share their humor. She was fairly tossed into a saddle, her heart sinking when Alan put his foot into the stirrup of the same saddle.

“I can ride alone,” she said with haste. “I have the skill.”

“And you will flee at first chance,” Alan said with a skeptical roll of his eyes. “I am not so witless as that.”

“I give you my word that I will not.”

“And what is a woman’s pledge worth?” Alan did not wait for a reply, but pulled himself up into the saddle behind her. He caught her fast against him and closed his gloved fist over her breast without any effort to hide the crude gesture from his men. Eleanor caught her breath at his unexpected familiarity and he tightened his grip upon her breast so that she knew she would be bruised.

“I beg you, do not injure me,” she whispered.

Alan laughed. He gave her breast one final squeeze of such vigor that it brought tears to her eyes, then spurred his horse onward. “Ride on!” he bellowed. “There is a welcoming heat to be savored in our own hall.”

The mercenaries laughed and Eleanor did not doubt that Alan made a lewd expression. She was glad to not be able to see him and feared his intent anew. Would the mercenaries each sample her in their turn? It was clear to her that several relished the prospect.

“I thought you desired my legacy,” she said, hoping that she was successful in making her voice sound calm.

“What man would be fool enough to not desire it?” Alan asked.

“The father of any son I bear must also be my legal husband to gain the legacy,” Eleanor said. “Though I am certain that you are aware of that detail.”

“Verily, I am. You have buried another spouse in your determination to flaunt the will of men, but you will not be rid of this one so readily.”

“You are not my spouse, but my jailor.”

“As yet.” He tore the laces from the side of her kirtle with sudden force, ripping the eyelets. He forced his gloved hand through the opening and grasped her crotch with crude force. Eleanor gasped and jumped, for his grip was painful. “This too shall be mine,” he rasped in her ear and her heart galloped in fear.

Though she knew it to be inevitable that she meet Alan abed, she had to think of some way to delay that horror.

“Surely you would want no doubt cast upon any claim you might make,” Eleanor said, her words rushed.

“And what is that to mean?”

“Than I have lain with the Laird of Kinfairlie, my lord husband, and should his seed bear fruit, my legacy shall be paid to his heir, regardless of who my husband might be.”

Alan loosed his grip upon her in his dismay. “You cannot do that!”

“I most surely can.” Eleanor strove to sound bold. “Do you imagine that my guardian will discredit my testimony as to which man is the father of my child?” Eleanor knew that Reinhard von Heigel, her father’s confidant and her guardian, would do precisely that, without a moment’s remorse. Like Alan, Reinhard believed the word of a woman to have no merit. She lied and she knew it, but she did not regret it.

Alan growled in dissatisfaction. “I will kill his heir, then.”

“And break your own pledge to leave Kinfairlie untroubled, with no guarantee that the coin will then come to you. The Lammergeier are plentiful and are said to have dark powers as well. Do you mean to engage them all in war?”

“I could beat any child out of you.”

“And readily kill me as well.” Eleanor shook her head, striving to appear as if she had a choice and was confident in it. “I will wed you after I next bleed and not one day before. There will then be no doubt cast on the rightful recipient of my legacy should I bear a child.”

Alan heaved a sigh and it seemed to Eleanor that the horse galloped over many miles before he replied. “I cede to you in this, but solely because it suits my own ends.” He tightened his grip upon her again so that she winced and his voice fell to a growl in her ear. “But if you deceive me, understand that you will pay for your perfidy. I will have an obedient wife, even if she has to be trussed and beaten to keep her so. A woman can be bruised in places that do not affect the fruitfulness of her womb. Are we understood?”

Eleanor nodded, her mouth dry. She knew then that as soon as she bore a son, as soon as Alan had her legacy, her life would be over. He might guard his blows until that day, but afterward, when he had no need of her, he would kill her.

Tivotdale’s shadow rose before the company and Eleanor was so terrified by the sight that she had to remind herself to breathe. What she had endured in this place was not easily forgotten!

There was no denying that she had done a good deed for Kinfairlie and its people, for Alan’s men had left without further violence to those residents.

Though truly they had already done their worst. Her tears rose with the certainty that Alexander was dead. She would have liked to have laid her fingers against his throat to be certain. She would have liked to have leaned her ear against his chest to dispel the last of her doubts.

But to be honest, she did not want to know for certain that Alexander Lammergeier was dead. She wanted to nurse a faint, if futile, hope that he would live, that he would be healed, that he would laugh and make a jest at his sisters’ expense once more. She wanted to believe that Kinfairlie would not be bereft of its protective laird, that Alexander would witness the wedding vows of Matthew and Ceara, that that holding would remain the tranquil sanctuary she had known it to be. Even if Alexander forgot about her, or chose not to pursue her, Eleanor would like to believe that he yet drew breath and found cause for merriment.

Eleanor knew that her hope was folly, for she could close her eyes and see that fearsome puddle of blood. She also knew it was her fault alone that Kinfairlie had been cursed to feel the weight of Alan’s hand. She should never have fled there. She should never have lingered. She should never have loved its laird, for it had been Alexander and her unexpected love for him that had persuaded Eleanor that she might hope.

They rode beneath Tivotdale’s portcullis and Eleanor knew a dreadful certainty that she would never leave this keep again alive.

Yet though the loss of the man she loved hurt more than Eleanor had feared, against all expectation, she had only one regret. She did not regret having loved Alexander: she regretted that she had not told him that he had succeeded in his quest to win her heart. She knew how much value he had placed in love and she knew that he would have been triumphant at the tidings of his success. She had not told him, not even when she knew of it, not even when she had had the chance.

And now, she never would have that chance again.

Eleanor would pray, she resolved, that she and Alexander might meet again in heaven, solely that she might have the chance to redress her error. She wanted to see satisfaction curve his lips, she wanted to see stars light his eyes. She wanted to hear him laugh at his triumph, a triumph which surely he had never doubted would be his own.

Alan swung out of the saddle, then reached up for her with a rough gesture that filled her with foreboding. He resembled Ewen so much in this moment that Eleanor’s spirit quailed.

She suspected that she might meet Alexander soon indeed.

* * *

Four days passed and still Alexander laid abed. Malcolm found himself standing vigil at the portal to the solar, fretful as he had not been before in all his days. Alexander had been pale when they carried him to his own bed and his flesh had been strangely cold. Anthony had staunched the blood flowing from his wound and in these past days, that wound had begun to heal.

But still Alexander slept. A large bump had arisen behind the healing wound, though it no longer seemed to grow larger. On those few occasions when Alexander awakened, he asked for Eleanor, no matter how many times he was told that she was gone. He had vomited so often the first few days that Matthew had thought any malady would be easier to endure than this.

He had been wrong. His brother’s unnatural sleep was far more difficult to watch. They had debated the merits of summoning Jeannie, but Malcolm was set against it, and truly, no one knew where the old healer had gone.

“Well?” Isabella asked from sudden proximity and Malcolm jumped.

“The same as yesterday,” he said, forcing a smile for her. “Perhaps he recovers in his dreams.”

Isabella grimaced. “That sounds like something Jeannie would say, and we all know that she concocted half of what she insisted was truth. Eleanor would know the truth.”

Malcolm could not argue with that. They turned as one and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Alexander’s chest. “Does he still ask for her?” Isabella asked in a whisper.

“Every time he awakens,” Malcolm said. “Her name is the only thing he murmurs in his sleep.”

Isabella smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Perhaps he dreams that she tends him.”

“Perhaps.”

Annelise ascended the stairs and came to a halt beside them, her manner subdued. She asked after Alexander and was no less pleased by the tidings than Isabella and Malcolm had been.

Something glinted in her hand as she hesitated beside them and Malcolm frowned as he tried to discern what it was. “What do you have?”

Annelise blushed. “It is a vial of scent, given to me by Rosamunde.”

“For your wedding night!” Isabella guessed. Annelise nodded, her cheeks aflame, and Isabella turned to Malcolm. “I gave mine to Eleanor and Alexander, and Eleanor poured it into the bath she had summoned.”

“Rosamunde said it would conjure sweetness between man and wife,” Annelise said, her manner cautious.

“I do not know what occurred --” Isabella paused for a moment but Malcolm said nothing “-- though it was long before they came back to the hall.”

Annelise held the vial out, like an offering. “I thought it might help.”

“But Alexander does not mean to take a bath on this night,” Malcolm said.

“I know that.” Annelise smiled sadly. “But Maman once said that scent is a potent summons and I knew what Isabella had done with her vial and I thought...”

“That it might call him back,” Isabella concluded with satisfaction. “I think it a good idea.” She took the vial from Annelise and marched into the solar.

“Let me see what you do!” Annelise complained and ran after her.

Malcolm followed the pair to watch. They paused beside the bed and not for the first time, Malcolm suspected that his sisters shared a secret language, one that needed no words. They exchanged a glance, then Isabella opened the vial.

Malcolm smelled flowers. He thought of summer, though he could not name the precise scents that assaulted his nostrils. He closed his eyes and envisioned himself within a garden of blossoms, the air fairly buzzing with bees, the sun spilling gold over all.

Annelise had brought a napkin wrought of linen. She poured the merest drop of the oil onto the linen, then Isabella stoppered the vial again. Annelise waved the linen beneath Alexander’s nose and they waited, breathless, for some response.

There was none.

Annelise waved the cloth again and Malcolm was struck by his brother’s pallor. Alexander’s skin was the hue of snow, and faint blue circles of exhaustion were visible beneath his eyes despite how much he had slept. He had lost weight, for his face was leaner, and his hair seemed to have lost its gloss. Malcolm looked away, unable to face the prospect of losing the brother he had admired every day of his life, and his vision veiled with tears.

“I must talk to the laird,” said a woman at the portal.

Malcolm seized the chance to do something to aid his ailing brother. “You cannot come into the solar. He must have his rest.”

“But he must know what I know. I tried to tell him, and the Lady Eleanor, before the keep was attacked, but they would not hear of it and look what happened!” The older maid threw up her hands, though Malcolm was not certain who she was. “And now I have spent every day and every night trying to come up these stairs to tell the laird what he has need of knowing, and I only face obstacle after obstacle.”

“There must be guards posted to defend the laird, for there have been assaults upon his life,” Malcolm said. He did not welcome this woman’s criticism, as he had commanded the sentries to defend the stairs himself.

“Would you defend him from the truth?” the maid demanded. “Would you defend him from knowledge of a spy in his own hall? Have you no desire to know what threats you face?” She jabbed her finger into her own chest. “I know far more than any of you and though I try to share my tidings, you will not hear of it. It is a kind of pride, a sinful kind, that keeps men of wit from listening to the counsel of those they think beneath themselves, to be sure.”

She paused for a breath and Malcolm took the opportunity to speak. “Who are you?”

She drew herself taller. “I am Moira Goodall, the maid of my lady Eleanor by sworn word to her dying mother, the lady Yolanda.” Moira shook a finger at Malcolm. “And there was a great lady, a lady who relied upon the counsel of those in her household and never shirked from hearing a truth, however painful it might be...”

“What truth would you tell, Moira?”

“I followed Lady Eleanor from Tivotdale, so devoted is my service to her, and your brother the laird welcomed me to Kinfairlie with the grace of a king. My gratitude is not small in this matter because he could have readily turned me from his gates and I would have had no place to go, but Laird Alexander allowed me to remain and fulfill my pledge to my lady’s mother...”

“These are not dire tidings, Moira,” Malcolm said with resolve. “Though I applaud my brother’s goodwill in granting you the chance to continue your service, this tale hardly demands to be told. There are many who have been welcomed at Kinfairlie.”

Moira blinked. “But that is precisely my point, and that is what the laird needs to know.”

Malcolm shook his head and would have dismissed the woman, but Moira caught at his sleeve. He looked at her and saw the fear in her eyes.

“I regret only that I did not notice the intruder sooner, for then, much wickedness could have been avoided.”

“What is this?” Malcolm’s interest was piqued.

“There is a man in service here, a mercenary, who I recognize from Tivotdale. He must have come with the party that rode in pursuit of Lady Eleanor on Christmas Day, just as I did, and he must have lingered here apurpose, just as I did.” Moira shook her head. “But unlike me, my lord, I would wager that this man remained at Laird Alan’s command and that his intent was not to grant faithful service to Laird Alexander.”

“Is he still here?”

Moira nodded with conviction and Malcolm’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade.

“Lock this portal behind me,” he said to them, then hastened after the maid. “What do you think he has done?”

Moira licked her lips. “Far be it for me to speak ill of a man without evidence against him, sir, but this one is known for his cunning and his malice. Alan Douglas oft relies upon him to see to the disappearance of any man who irks him overmuch.”

“You mean that this man kills?”

Moira nodded and looked about herself before lowering her voice. “Those thorns, the ones found beneath my lord’s saddle, the ones that the ostler Owen has spoken of?”

“They are large, larger than any I have seen.”

“I have seen them.” The maid held his gaze with conviction. “They grow upon the briars at Tivotdale.”

* * *

So intent was Malcolm upon the capture of the dangerous intruder in his brother’s hall that he did not give note to his sisters’ cry of delight behind him.

Nor did he hear his brother ask for his lady wife.

Chapter Thirteen

There were worse things than being sole porter at Tivotdale on Epiphany. The man left to that task was certain of it, though his conviction waned as the sound of merrymaking within Tivotdale’s hall grew steadily louder. The night was cold and dark and the skies threatened rain or snow. The wind over the moors had a bite, to be sure, and he felt somewhat sorry for himself at being excluded from the festivities of the night.

He always managed to choose the short straw. There were others patrolling the perimeter of the village, to be sure, but he did not doubt that they would be invited to share the warmth of one hearth or another, and they were easily forgotten as he could not see them. He stamped his feet and paced behind the closed portcullis, and strove to entertain himself with the prospect of what those worse things might be.

He could be fed to wolves, one piece at a time. That surely would be worse than being porter for a night. Laughter carried from the hall beyond and he could discern music. He sighed and huddled in his cloak and paced.

He could be flayed alive, or drawn and quartered, neither of which appeared to be particularly amusing ways to pass an evening. Surely that would be worse than spending a night in the cold, even if it was the sole night upon which this particular Douglas laird showed any generosity.

He turned and looked toward the hall wistfully. They were drinking ale, he knew it, and at the laird’s expense, too. He had seen the venison, both the roast haunches and the thick rich stew, when he had claimed a meal in the kitchens before reporting for his duty. He had seen and smelled the fresh bread, the eggs in red wine, the hare in pepper sauce, the boar in mustard sauce, rows of pigeon pies and roasted ducks. He salivated even at the recollection and his belly grumbled.

When he had gone to the kitchens, they had given him a bowl of thin soup, wrought of the leavings of the day before, a piece of cold bread, and bade him stay out of the way.

He could draw the short length next Epiphany as well as this one. That would be not only worse but cursed fortune indeed.

He pivoted, intending to pace the width of the gate once more, and straightened at the sight of a small party on the road leading to his very feet. They were a motley band, dressed in all manner of garb, and they cavorted rather than walking. They had no steeds, but seemed amiable enough.

Indeed, they were singing. He strained his ears and only barely heard the words.

“With a rink tink tink,

For sup or drink,

we will make the old bell sound.

A merry Christmas to you all,

and may happiness abound.”

The porter smiled despite himself, for he had a fondness for a performance of any kind. He wondered from whence this group had come, and assumed them to be from the village. They seemed to have appeared from the twist the road made around that distant copse of trees, though there was no destination close enough for walking along that road.

They must have wandered the long way from the village the better that their arrival not be anticipated.

Perhaps the laird had commanded their presence, for he was well-known to be uncommonly pleased this year. His own nuptials would be celebrated on the morrow, hence the bounty on the board this night. Only a man more dim-witted than this porter would suggest that there was aught amiss in a man wedding his brother’s widow, and that within a month of that brother’s demise.

There was a worse fate. The porter could have been sharing Tivotdale’s dungeon with the priest who had refused to perform the nuptial ceremony on those very grounds.

Certainly, the approaching company was drunk. They laughed and fell over each other’s feet, tumbling and staggering along the road. One of them had a bell, but the rhythm of its ringing was not steady. Their singing was tuneful, though, and tempted the porter’s foot to tap in time.

He watched them draw ever nearer, oblivious to all else. Indeed, it was such a quiet night that he already knew there to be naught else to watch. There must have been thirty of them or so, and they were of every height and size. They were a carefree lot, but harmless to be sure. There were several who looked to be maidens, but the porter knew that these must be young boys in truth.

Whether he had ordered it or not, the laird would be pleased to savor their entertainment this night. After all, it was an invitation to bad fortune to deny such performers a chance to dance and beg in one’s own abode. The porter was not prepared to court any such fate.

The company halted half a dozen paces away and one stepped cockily forward. His face was blacked, probably with soot, as were the faces of all in his company. He wore a length of red cloth wound around his head, as the porter had heard the infidels were wont to do. His boots were mired though they were uncommonly tall, and his tabard was of myriad colors, with silver bells hanging upon its hem. He carried naught more worrisome than a broom and several wineskins, the contents of which were undoubtedly responsible for the little company’s joyful mood.

He made an elaborate bow, then winked at the porter before he sang.

“Open the door and we will enter in,

whether we lose or whether we win.

If ever we rise, we will stand or fall,

but we will do our duty to please you all.”

The company applauded him, the man with the bell rang it merrily, then they all looked expectantly at the porter.

“Aye, your company will be welcomed here this night,” he said as he reached for the rope. “The laird’s own wedding is to be celebrated on the morrow, after all, and doubtless more largesse will fall from his hand this night than is customary.”

The company exchanged glances among themselves, undoubtedly pleased by this prospect. No sooner had the porter cranked up the gate, then they had all slipped beneath it.

He turned but they were as quick as eels, and just as difficult to catch. They flitted around him like shadows and he did not manage to land a hand upon a single one of them.

“Hoy!” he shouted. “Wait!” The rules demanded that he check every soul who entered the gates for weapons and he knew a moment’s fear when the company merely laughed at him.

They repeated their song, half a dozen of them dancing around him in a circle as the others darted toward the hall.

“This is forbidden!” the porter cried. “You cannot do this thing! I must ensure that you bear no weapons.”

A large member of the company caught him in a tight hug from the side before he could say more. The porter was momentarily confused. All performers in all places were men, by tradition, but he felt a pair of enormous breasts press against his arm.

“Do you not have a kiss for me?” The words came in a feminine falsetto, the barest breath against his ear. The porter’s interest was kindled, for it had been a long and lonely autumn.

He closed his eyes and turned his face every so slightly. His affectionate assailant kissed him soundly on the lips and the porter was more than a little aroused by her ardent embrace.

She was gone, dancing down the corridor with her fellows, before he realized that he had also felt the tickle of a considerable moustache.

Then he knew without doubt what was worse than being left alone as porter at Tivotdale’s gates on Epiphany. He scrubbed at his lips with his gloved hand and hoped no soul had noticed how much he had enjoyed that kiss.

* * *

Eleanor pushed the meat from her side of the trencher to Alan’s side. He ate it with undisguised enthusiasm, seemingly oblivious to her discontent.

But then, she had not expected any other response from him. He saw the prospect of wealth in her, a curve of breast that meant the task of getting a son upon her would not be so onerous, and little else.

No one had troubled to tempt her smile. No one in Tivotdale had even taken note of her unhappiness. No one cared what she thought, what she felt, whether she felt welcomed or at home. Five years ago, when she had sat at this same table at Ewen’s side, she had never felt the lack, but now Eleanor felt it keenly.

She missed Kinfairlie and its easy camaraderie, the affection between its people and its ruling family. She missed the Lammergeier sisters, their compassion for a stranger and their willingness to make her feel one of their family. And she missed Alexander with a painful vigor, his confidence, his laughter, his attention to her.

She was convinced that she would never see the stars from Tivotdale, not in the eyes of any man, not in the gaze of any maiden, confident and merry, not even in the sky above.

There was singing suddenly, carrying from the short corridor outside the great hall. The sound was so delightful that Eleanor thought she imagined it, for such merriment could not belong at Tivotdale.

“With a rink tink tink,

For sup or drink,

we will make the old bell sound.

A merry Christmas to you all,

and may happiness abound.”

A bell sounded suddenly, drawing the attention of all, even the most drunken mercenary in the great hall. A man with a red turban, tall boots and a blackened face stepped confidently into the chamber. There were bells on the hem of his tabard, but they were not the source of the ringing sound. He stood with an expectant manner while his fellows—evidently still outside the chamber—sang the verse again.

There was something familiar in his cocksure stance, though Eleanor did not dare to name it.

The company gathered at Tivotdale began to nudge each other at this prospect of entertainment, and even Alan sat back with a cup of ale and smiled. He beckoned to the man, who bowed low with such grace that Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat.

It could not be Alexander, not truly. She bit her lip and fought to appear indifferent, even as she studied the man.

The new arrival brandished his broom with authority and began to sweep the hall as he sang his verse.

“Room, room, gentlemen, room do I obtain,

For after me steps Galgacus and all his royal train.

A battle you will soon see of fearsome might,

Between Galgacus and the Black Knight.

If you do not believe what I now say,

Step in, Galgacus, and clear the way.”

He stepped to one side, tucking his broom under his elbow with a jaunty gesture, and threw out his hand to indicate the portal. A man stepped through the doorway and looked from one side to the other with a fearsome scowl. His armor was wrought of kitchen pots tied together, their bottoms blacked with use, which made the company of mercenaries laugh. His face, too, was blackened, but Eleanor scarce breathed.

It was Malcolm. She knew it well.

She forced herself to appear only mildly interested in the proceedings, though her heart had begun to race. Alexander not only lived, but he had come for her! She could not guess his scheme, but there was a good chance of success given the drunken state of Alan’s mercenaries.

Why, though, did he attack within the Holy Days? It was forbidden, and though she was glad he had come, she feared for his immortal soul in making such a choice.

She picked at her meat, as if desultory.

“You should watch,” Alan chided. “This will cost me good coin, in the end.”

Eleanor shrugged. “I do not care for such follies.”

Alan shook his head and turned back to the pair on the floor, apparently fascinated.

The Black Knight then sang.

“In I come, I am the Black Knight,

Come to this land to wage a good fight.

I will fight Galgacus on this spot,

That valiant man of courage bold.

Let his blood be ever so hot,

I will shortly see it cold.”

Alexander then feigned surprise, and sang.

“Galgacus? Galgacus stands outside the door!

He will see this braggart dead on the floor.”

A man bounded through the portal, a pot on his head for a helmet but chain mail on his chest. He brandished a weapon which looked genuine enough to Eleanor’s eyes. She had to peer at his blackened face, but she was fairly certain that he was Kinfairlie’s miller.

“Galgacus am I, and in I stride,

A noble champion and bold.

With my loyal blade by my side,

I won three crowns of gold.

’Twas I that killed the infidels

And brought dozens of them to slaughter

’Tis I that by this fight

Mean to win the King’s own daughter.”

A familiar figure stepped into the room and fluttered his lashes. It was the ostler, Owen, those two loaves of bread in his chemise once more. He bowed and one leapt free, compelling him to crawl after it under the benches.

Alan’s men laughed heartily and Malcolm sang again.

“Galgacus calls himself a champion,

I think myself as good.

Before I surrender to him

I will lose my precious blood.”

He lifted his sword and the two would-be combatants sang in unison.

“Battle, battle, I will cry,

To see which on the ground shall lie!”

They lunged at each other and their blades clashed. Their swordplay took them back and forth across the hall, their every gesture exaggerated. Though the mercenaries laughed at their antics, Eleanor saw skill in their battle, particularly from Malcolm. He stumbled and rolled, he scrambled out of the way of the miller’s assault with the agility of a cat. He hid behind a serving wench and must have pinched her buttocks, for she squealed and struck him. His astonished expression made the mercenaries howl with laughter.

He fell then, before his opponent’s blade was even close to him and the miller froze. “You were not supposed to fall as yet,” he whispered, then spared a glance to the watchful company.

Matthew sat up. “Just strike me dead now then,” he whispered, his words loud enough for all to hear. “No one will notice.”

“They cannot even show the competence to feign a fight,” Alan muttered with a shake of his head. He drained his cup.

The miller looked around in apparent despair, then bent low. “But where is the bladder? How will they know you to be dead if you do not bleed?”

Matthew looked suddenly dismayed. He searched under the myriad pots of his armor, then held up a something that looked like a stuffed sausage. Both men’s faces lit with triumph.

Malcolm leapt to his feet and they battled again, apparently repeating the part that they had done incorrectly.

Galgacus stabbed his blade into the sausage, missed and his blade clanged on a pot. The Black Knight fell all the same, despite having no injury, then pointed insistently to the sausage perched on his chest. Galgacus stabbed again and this time pierced the sausage, which spurted something red all over the floor.

The company cheered, as much at the illusion of a genuine wound as the fact that they had gotten it right. Galgacus then bent his head beside his fallen opponent, apparently filled with remorse at his accomplishment.

“Gentlemen all, see what I have done,

I have cut the Black Knight down!

Is there a sorcerer that can be found?

To cure this noble knight on the ground?”

He turned and appealed to the hall, and every man there looked about himself. A cloaked figure stepped into the hall then and raised his hands. Even his blackened features could not disguise Father Malachy from Eleanor’s detection. He spun as he sang, his cloak swirling in a great arc as he crossed the floor.

“There is a sorcerer to be found

To cure this noble knight on the ground.”

He stopped beside the fallen Black Knight and looked upon him in apparent surprise. Alexander stepped forward.

“But what can you cure, oh sorcerer?”

Father Malachy nodded confidentially to the crowd.

“I can cure all diseases you hear about

I can cure the hitch, the stitch, the palsy and the gout.

Raging pain both inside and out.

If a devil is in a man, I can fetch him out.”

Alexander and the miller nodded appreciatively at this and Father Malachy sang on.

“Give me an old woman four score and ten

And I will make her young and plump again.”

“I have need of that talent!” a bold man in the company cried and the others laughed.

“Take my wife, then,” shouted another, to the amusement of all. Alexander raised his voice again.

“But how will you cure him, sorcerer?”

Father Malachy lifted a finger.

“I have a hundred potions,

And spells three times three.

But I shall confess to thee:

There is no better cure

Than potent eau-de-vie,

Especially that from Sicily.”

He pulled out a wineskin with a triumphant gesture, tipped it and squirted a measure of it into his own mouth. He shook his head, as if impressed by its potency, then squirted it at the fallen knight. He missed that man’s mouth, which left the “dead” man groping for his cure like a fish cast out of water.

The company roared, no less when the Black Knight bounced to his feet hale again. Instead of that cured man singing his lines, the sorcerer sang his last verse again.

“I have a hundred potions,

And spells three times three.

But I shall confess to thee:

There is no better cure

Than potent eau-de-vie,

Especially that from Sicily.”

And he squirted a measure of eau-de-vie at the mercenary at the closest table. That man caught the liquid in his mouth, then his face lit with pleasure.

“It is eau-de-vie in truth!” he bellowed, opening his mouth for more.

The sorcerer obliged and soon the hall was clamoring for the expensive and uncommon liquor.

“I have need of a cure!” shouted a man on the either side of the hall.

“As do I!”

The company of entertainers seemed prepared to share their rare libation. More characters with blackened faces strode into the hall, each singing a ditty of introduction which was lost in the noise of the hall.

Meanwhile, Alexander passed out wineskins to his companions and soon there were arches of potent liquor flying through the air in all directions. In moments, Alan’s mercenaries had eau-de-vie all over their faces and their tabards, but not a one of them cared. Alexander’s men had brought a lot of the liquor, which told Eleanor that her husband had a scheme.

Eleanor noticed that a great deal of the eau-de-vie was spilled on the linens upon the tables in the same moment that she heard the bell in Tivotdale’s church striking the hour.

One, two, three, four.

“Enough!” Alan roared as chaos claimed his hall. Alexander pivoted and sent a long stream of liquor directly at Alan’s mouth, silencing any protest with a gurgle. Eleanor stifled her smile, for it was a poor move to laugh at the expense of this man, just as it had been to find amusement in his brother’s deeds.

Five, six, seven, eight.

There were nigh thirty performers in Tivotdale’s hall now, making a broad circle in the midst of the hall. At least half had moved around the perimeter of the hall unnoticed, for the attention of every man in the hall was focused on the unexpected bounty of liquor.

Nine, ten.

“Something is amiss,” Alan said abruptly, rising to his feet. Eleanor feared that any scheme was doomed, for he laid his hand upon the hilt of his blade.

Eleven, twelve. At the last ring, Eleanor realized the truth. The Holy Days were over. The injunction against warfare no long applied.

As the last strike sounded, Alexander stepped forward. He emptied his wineskin upon Alan, making no effort to aim for that man’s mouth. Alan sputtered in indignation to find himself sodden with liquor, but before he could speak, Alexander winked.

Eleanor caught her skirts in her hands and prepared to move, knowing she had been warned. In the same moment, those of Alexander’s company around the perimeter seized the wall sconces and cast the flaming torches onto the tables.

The flames devoured the liquor-soaked cloth and burned high with fearsome speed. Alan roared in fury. He snatched for Eleanor but she had already leapt over the high table.

Alexander caught her and shoved her behind him. “How could I not love such a clever woman?” he mused and she fairly glowed with pleasure.

In one smooth gesture, Alexander pulled his sword from the scabbard hidden in his high boots and faced Alan. Eleanor looked around to find every member of the apparently besotted group of performers armed and steely-eyed. There were not just villagers from Kinfairlie in their company, but a number of mercenaries from Kinfairlie’s hall. Those in Alan’s employ who did not find their garb afire roared and leapt into battle.

“You again,” Alan said, then pulled his own blade. “I have killed you once and I will kill you twice.”

“In a fair fight?” Alexander shook his head. “I think not.”

Alan laughed. “An injured man is easily laid low again. You took a killing blow when last we met. It will not take much to see you dead in truth.” He waved the tip of his sword at Eleanor. “And this time, you need not expect such kindness from me as you have seen thus far.”

“You know nothing of kindness,” she said, then Alan leapt from the high table.

His blade struck resoundingly against Alexander’s own, nearly sending that man stumbling. Alexander freed his blade and struck quickly, before Alan completed his swing. Alan swore and blood stained his sleeve where the blade had bitten.

“A nick, no more and no less,” Alan snarled. “Though you shall have more than equal compense for that deed.”

Their blades clashed again and Alexander pushed Eleanor out of harm’s way. Malcolm fought his way to defend his brother’s back, though he spared her a smile of encouragement. She found herself surrounded by the miller, the ostler, Father Malachy and the miller’s son, Matthew. The circle of men defended her vigorously, slowly making a steady course toward the portal.

A mercenary lunged at them unexpectedly and injured Father Malachy. That man cried out and the little company faltered for a moment, so unaccustomed were they to battle. Two of Kinfairlie’s mercenaries joined their circle, their blows fearsome.

Eleanor reached past the priest and seized a torch that burned atop one of the trestle tables. She pivoted and jabbed it at the mercenary. His tabard flamed with alarming speed, for he had been soaked by the liquor, and even his beard lit. He fell back in horror and pain. Eleanor spun with the burning torch fast in her grip, determined to do her part.

“My lord needs our aid!” Matthew cried suddenly.

They looked as one to see that Tivotdale’s surviving mercenaries had made a barrier between Alexander and Malcolm and the portal. Those two men fought with such vigor that they had not noticed their quandary.

“They mean to ensure that there is no escape, even if Alan falls,” Eleanor said, hating Alan Douglas and all who served him.

“What shall we do?” the miller asked.

“We have to thwart them,” Eleanor said. She lit another torch and passed it to Matthew. “Fire is our best weapon, but pray that it does not see to our demise as well.”

“I would gladly die in defense of my laird,” Matthew said with resolve. The men nodded their accord and the little company turned as one to assault the mercenaries closest to them. Within moments, they had turned the men to a wall of flame. Men fell, men screamed, men rolled on the ground.

Eleanor stamped out a flame on the priest’s shoulder with the flat of her hand and the others took to watching each other. Those souls from Kinfairlie around the edges of the room echoed their scheme of attack and soon Eleanor had to brace herself against the scent of burning flesh. The hall was becoming smoky and so hot that her own flesh seemed to sizzle.

She wondered whether they would even be able to make the portal. They reached Alexander and Malcolm and she saw that the cloth wrapped around Alexander’s head had fallen aside. There was a red scar at the base of his skull and a lump beneath it.

He should not have been on his feet, much less doing battle! His hair was dark with sweat and his teeth were gritted, but he gave Alan no quarter.

Until suddenly and unexpectedly, Alexander faltered. Eleanor caught her breath in fear. Alan stepped forward with a gleam in his eye, intent upon his kill. He raised his blade in triumph and made to bring it down upon Alexander’s head.

“No!” Eleanor screamed, though her cry was swallowed by the din of the hall.

Just as Alan began his killing stroke, Alexander drove his blade upward and into Alan’s belly. Alan choked, his own sword fell, he staggered backward. Alexander drove his blade ever higher, until Eleanor was certain Alan could taste it. That man’s eyes gaped.

“Did you not heed our performance, Alan?” Alexander asked, then tsk-tsked. “The truth is that the dead will rise was before your very eyes. You should have had the wits to be warned.” He pulled his blade out of Alan’s chest, the length of it stained with blood, then kicked Alan backward. Alan fell and the flames claimed him in their fiery embrace, his tabard burning with a crackle.

Alexander pivoted and seized Eleanor’s hand. Their task complete, the company fled the carnage in Tivotdale’s burning hall.

And Eleanor knew there was one last thing she must confess to Alexander, though it might well cost her every prize she had won thus far. The man had asked for honesty, and it was past time to surrender it to him.

All of it, no matter how ugly it was.

* * *

The portcullis was open, to Alexander’s relief. His head pounded with painful vigor, but there was no ease to be savored before they were safely within Kinfairlie’s walls. A trio of shadows separated themselves from the wall and he braced himself, but it was his sisters, still beneath the fretful eye of Eleanor’s maid, Moira. Isabella and Elizabeth matched their steps to that of the company, and Elizabeth spared him a nod that told of her success.

Alexander winked at her, well pleased. He had been fearful for the success of her scheme, even for his sisters’ survival, but they had made an argument he had not been able to protest. He could scarce think for the pain between his ears, much less summon a clever comment, but he dared not indulge his urge to halt now.

“You let your sisters accompany you?” Eleanor demanded of him in outrage. “How could you so endanger maidens beneath your care? I thought you were a man well aware of his responsibilities!”

His wife had much to learn about his willful sisters, though Alexander had no chance to tell her as much.

“He could not have left us behind,” Isabella said grimly. “Even if he had locked us in our chamber, we would have found a way to follow and be of aid.”

“And if they were coming, then so was I, my lady,” Moira said. “I have as stout a heart as any and I would not be left standing aside while you were retrieved from the clutches of this lot.”

“But there were many come to my aid,” Eleanor argued. She granted Alexander a quelling glance. “You should not have put your sisters in peril.” Her lips tightened. “Nor should you have imperiled yourself by this feat. How do you mean to walk all the way to Kinfairlie? I see that scar upon your flesh, Alexander Lammergeier, and I am enough of a healer to know that you risk much in this pursuit.”

“I risked all,” he said, granting her a quick kiss that left her blushing and silent. He held her gaze. “And regret none of it.”

She blinked back tears and tightened her grip upon his hand, her first outward sign of relief. Alexander quickened his pace, for they were not free of Tivotdale’s boundaries as yet.

“We could not have surrendered you to Alan Douglas!” Isabella grimaced and shuddered. “He was never a man of merit.”

“Besides,” Elizabeth said with some confidence. “I am the only one who can pick a lock. Alexander could not have left me behind.”

Eleanor blinked, clearly unaware of the import of this talent, then a fearsome groan filled the air behind them. Alexander looked back in time to see Tivotdale’s roof crumble, shifting so that its considerable weight fell into the great hall. Smoke rose from the fissures in the roof and the dull orange of the flames could be seen on the stone.

The last of the sentries—who must have been sleeping—bellowed at the sight. They shouted to each other, then roared when they spied the fleeing party.

“Run!” Alexander cried, for it did not matter if they were overheard now. An arrow buried itself in the ground beside him. “Run!”

The entire company took to their heels, fleeing as quickly as they could. A hail of arrows buried themselves in the ground on their every side and Alexander heard one grunt of pain. One of the villagers held fast to his shoulder, which now bled, but ran grimly onward.

Alexander felt his grasp of his surroundings faltering. Alan had fought more vigorously than he had expected, though in the moment, he had not been aware of his own weakness. Now, he felt the full impact of his former injury.

He felt Malcolm take one of his elbows and knew that Eleanor held fast to the other.

“We will never make it,” Eleanor muttered.

“Of course, we will,” Malcolm replied.

“You have little faith in the Lammergeier,” Alexander teased, his voice weak. Eleanor spared him a glance filled with concern, then the welcome pound of hoof beats filled the air. “You see? Aid is nigh upon us.”

Eleanor turned, a frown drawing her brows together, for in the blackness of the night, it was easier to hear the horses than to see them.

“Destriers,” she whispered and Alexander smiled.

“Our destriers,” he confirmed.

The ground rumbled with the steeds’ approach and the small company cheered. Alexander saw the horses of Ravensmuir, a great herd of them, bearing down upon the group. Their ebony necks were arched, their manes and tails, as dark as midnight, gleamed in the wind. Their hoof beats were sure and resolute, their approach made the very earth tremble. Their saddles were empty, save for a mere trio of them.

The beaming face of the ostler of Ravensmuir became visible, for he rode the foremost steed. Two of his boys rode the horses on the flanks but the beasts were so disciplined—or perhaps so clever—that they seemed to know their destination without being told.

They surrounded the small company as it came out of the range of the archers, pacing and prancing, and Uriel bent to nuzzle Alexander. Owen and Malcolm fairly heaved Alexander into his destrier’s saddle, and he felt Eleanor’s concerned gaze upon him.

“I will ride with him,” she said to Owen, who shook his head.

“No, my lady.” Owen seized the reins of a large mare and offered Eleanor his hand that she might climb to the stirrup. “It is more fitting that you ride your own steed.”

It was a moment that Alexander savored and he knew he would recall it a thousand times. His wife looked between the ostler and the horse, seemingly lost for words. She looked then to Alexander, tears welling in those magnificent green eyes.

“Guinevere insisted,” he said lightly, feeling better now that he was in the saddle. “I told you that she had no care for our counsel, but then, I have an affection for females with thoughts of their own.”

“I cannot...I should not...” Eleanor said, her very incoherence a sign of her pleasure. She stroked the mare’s nose, clearly overwhelmed.

“Of course you should!” Isabella chided. “You are the Lady of Kinfairlie and family as well. It is only fitting.”

“Make haste, my lady,” Owen said, glancing back to burning Tivotdale.

Eleanor needed no further encouragement. She shook her head and swung into the saddle, her grace that of one well accustomed to riding. The light of her features told Alexander the truth of how pleased she was.

“You must give me a ride,” Isabella insisted to Eleanor. “It is likely the closest I shall ever come to having a Ravensmuir steed for my very own.” She granted Alexander an arch look, which he ignored. Elizabeth meanwhile rode a smaller mare with Moira riding pillion, that maid fairly trembling at the size of the steed.

The company turned as one and the horses began to canter toward Kinfairlie. Eleanor rode upon Alexander’s left, Malcolm upon his right, and his sisters’ two steeds to Eleanor’s left. Tivotdale fell behind them, becoming a dull red gleam in the distance. By morning there would be nothing left of the brothers who had so abused his lady wife, and not much more of their abode.

Alexander believed that most fitting.

* * *

“My lady, I did not realize that you blamed yourself for Ewen’s death,” Moira said when they had passed the copse of trees where the horses had been hidden, and Tivotdale was lost to view.

Eleanor started. “Of course I did. How could I not do so?”

“What happened?” Alexander asked, knowing full well what Moira knew that his lady did not.

Eleanor met his gaze steadily. “He came drunken to our chamber, as was his custom. He locked the portal. He shed his garb. He insisted that we would lie together and when I declined, because he was besotted, he raised his hand to strike me as so oft he had before.” She swallowed. “And I did not deign to be struck again.”

Her words sat in the air between them all, the group listening intently. Alexander understood why she had feared him at first, why she had panicked when he had locked the door to the portal. “Did he always strike you?”

“Only after the first year, though he was always rough. It was when I did not conceive a son, and that despite his efforts, that he was so angered with me.”

Again, this demand for sons. Alexander supposed her expectation that he would demand boys from her came from her experience of men. He reached for her hand and she clutched at his, even as she sat straighter in the saddle. “And so, you did not deign to be struck again,” he said, encouraging her to continue.

“No. And so I struck him back,” she confessed. “Indeed, I hit Ewen before he managed to hit me, so drunken was he. He fell. He moved no more.” Her throat worked. “I knew that my life was as good as over if they tried me at Tivotdale for his murder, so in terror I fled, in the midst of the night.”

She looked to Alexander again, a plea in her eyes. “And so I happened to come to Kinfairlie, a rare sanctuary if ever there was one, as if someone guided my path. And so I surrender this truth to its laird, because I know he favors truth, even if it is condemning, and I plead for his mercy.”

“You have no need of his mercy,” Alexander said quietly. “For your truth is but a measure of the full truth.”

Eleanor blinked in her astonishment. She frowned at Alexander and he indicated Moira, who cleared her throat portentously.

“I came to your chamber that morning, my lady, and found you gone. I found my lord Ewen fallen upon the floor, as well, and thought at first that he but slumbered there. God knows but the man had fallen into a drunken stupor far from his bed a thousand times before. He was snoring, though there was a bump upon his head and truly I felt much sympathy for you that you should have to ensure such a boar of a spouse.”

“Snoring?” Eleanor exclaimed. “How could he have been snoring?”

“Aye, my lady, he snored. He was alive. I went to fetch my lord Alan, for I knew it would take at least one man to heave Ewen into his own bed. I thought merely that you had risen and gone down to the hall or the kitchens.”

Moira took a deep breath. “I brought Alan to your chamber, and he bent over his brother, who had ceased to snore by this time. Alan paused in a way that prompted me to look closer. He asked where you were and I confessed that I did not know. He noted that your cloak and boots were gone, as if you had departed. I could not explain this. I looked about the chamber seeking some reason why your garb should be gone and had I taken longer about it, I would not have seen the truth of what he did.”

Eleanor’s fingers tightened on Alexander’s own.

“I saw the knife,” Moira said. “I saw the blade flash in the morning sunlight, I saw him bury it in his own brother’s throat. I heard the gurgle of Ewen’s death, though I had my wits about me and feigned to seek your stockings. And Alan rose, as calm as ever a man could be, and he turned, and he looked me in the eye and he informed me that my lady had stabbed her lord husband to death. He said that his elder brother had been murdered, that his brother’s widow was a murderess and that he would have to assume the burden of the lairdship of Tivotdale.”

“But Ewen never allowed me to carry a knife!” Eleanor exclaimed. “With what would I have stabbed him?”

“I was not the only one to note that detail, my lady, though I said nothing. Those who argued with Alan Douglas found themselves savoring the hospitality of his dungeons.”

Eleanor’s mouth worked in her surprise, but Alexander merely held fast to her hand.

“Just as another man finds himself in Kinfairlie’s dungeon,” Elizabeth said with gusto.

“Who?” Eleanor asked, looking between them all.

“One of Alan’s mercenaries, left behind when that army sought you at Kinfairlie on Christmas Day,” Alexander said.

“He put the thorns beneath Uriel’s saddle,” Malcolm said with disdain.

“And I spied him in the hall,” Moira said. “I recognized him well, though at first I could not fathom his reason for being at Kinfairlie, his scheme was soon clear enough.” She nodded with satisfaction. “The laird Alexander saw him rightfully condemned for his attempt to see the laird of the abode laid low.”

“What will happen to him?” Eleanor asked Alexander.

He shrugged but spoke with resolve. “A fate that befits his crime. In several months, a scent will doubtless rise from Kinfairlie’s dungeon. We shall see the dungeon cleaned, as is fitting for all of the keep in the spring.” He met her gaze. “Perhaps we will find something in the dungeons that we have forgotten.”

Eleanor held his gaze unflinchingly. “It is fitting that he suffer,” she said with vigor. “He will have time to repent of his sins.” Then she frowned. “But what of the potion that felled Anthony?”

“It was of Jeannie’s concoction,” Elizabeth confided.

“Jeannie?”

“She meant it for you,” Alexander said. “As a warning that you not discount her talents.” Eleanor’s lips thinned but Alexander granted her no chance to speak. “I would be pleased if my lady wife would see fit to take the care and welfare of those at Kinfairlie beneath her hand, as our former healer has seen fit to depart.”

Eleanor smiled and her grip tightened upon his. “I would be delighted.”

Alexander smiled at his lady wife. He turned and saw Kinfairlie’s silhouette rising before them, the tower outlined against the silver of the sea, and felt a surge of pride at the sight of his abode.

Their abode. It was not affluent, but it was a handsome home, and with Eleanor by his side, he felt certain that his fortunes had changed for the better

Somehow, they would see Kinfairlie prosper again.

* * *

“There is something else you should have,” Elizabeth said when Eleanor thought there could be nothing else to be confessed. The girl fumbled with something she had knotted to her belt, then offered a bundle wrapped in cloth to Eleanor. “Alan was so predictable,” she said with a scornful shake of her head. “It was right in the top of his treasury.”

The weight of the bundle was so familiar, so precious that Eleanor dared to hope. “Was that the lock you picked?” she guessed.

Elizabeth smiled with pride. “The very same. Rosamunde taught me that skill on one of her visits when there was little else to do and neither of us had an appetite for embroidery. I never thought to use it, though.”

“Be careful sister mine,” Alexander warned, his teasing tone not hiding the fact that he was much more pale than he had been. “You shall become the uncommon woman in our family.”

“I do not care if I am!” Elizabeth said with a jut of her chin.

Before she could argue more, Isabella interjected. “Open it,” she urged.

Eleanor closed her hand around the cloth-bound bundle and her heart leapt at the familiarity of the shape hidden within it. Her mouth went dry and she felt her heart pound. “I never thought to see this again,” she said, her voice thick.

The others waited, patient with her even as she sat overwhelmed. Did they appreciate the magnitude of the gifts the offered to her? Eleanor could not believe herself deserving of such bounty—or else, they were more generous than any souls she had ever known.

She unwrapped the gem with care, half-fearing that she had guessed it wrongly, that the promise of this gift would again be snatched away before her eyes.

But no. Alexander never disappointed her. The rubies in her mother’s crucifix gleamed in the starlight, the gem glinting in her palm.

Eleanor’s tears began to fall in her joy. “I thank you,” she whispered, looking to each other them in turn. “I thank you, all. It was the sole memento I had of my mother, though I am astonished that you would risk your life to see it returned. Thank you!” Alexander laid his hand atop hers and she took a shuddering breath, her hand trembling atop the gem.

“Don it!” Elizabeth urged.

Eleanor needed no more encouragement to put the golden chain over her head. The gem fell just below her collarbone, its weight welcome beyond belief. She smiled at Alexander, who watched her with bright eyes. “You have given me gifts beyond expectation,” she whispered.

“I grant you no more and no less than what you deserve,” he said, then kissed her knuckles. The others turned to speak to each other, granting the pair a moment of privacy.

“I wish I had had this to wear on our nuptial day,” Eleanor said, stroking the crucifix. “It was said to bring good fortune.”

“Considering the fortune you had in the two marriages for which you did wear it, I am rather glad that you did not have it then,” Alexander said with a grin. “You can wear it from this day forward.”

“Indeed, I will, for I find this marriage a fortunate one indeed.”

“Guinevere, too, is your nuptial gift, although belatedly given,” Alexander said. “I hope you will ride her long and in good health, as I hope our marriage will endure long in good health.”

Eleanor smiled, feeling lighter and more blessed than ever she had. “I thank you, though I regret that I have but one gift that I can surrender to you in this moment.”

Alexander arched a brow. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.” She held fast to his hand. “My lord husband has succeeded in his quest to make my heart his very own, and so I surrender it to your care. I love you, Alexander Lammergeier.” She smiled at him. “I am told with good authority that this is the foundation of all marriages of merit.”

“That was always my understanding,” he said with a wink.

They entered the bailey, the horses stamping and snorting. Squires came running from the stables and villagers clustered about the company, anxious to hear details of their adventure. Anthony strode from the hall, shouting commands, and ensuring that the wounded had prompt care.

But Eleanor had eyes only for her husband. He was more pale than she would have preferred, though still he moved with vigor. Alexander dismounted, then lifted her from her saddle.

“You should not have fetched me, not until your wound was healed,” she chided, unable to halt herself.

He grinned, holding her so that her feet were just above the ground, as if he meant to put her back in the saddle. “Shall I return you to Tivotdale, and come for you later?” he asked, his manner playful, and she laughed aloud.

“You know what I mean,” she said, putting her arms around his neck. “I love you. I am pleased beyond all to be by your side, but I care for your welfare.”

He bent and kissed her brow. “As I care for yours.” His voice caught as he held her closer. “There was no choice, Eleanor. I love you too much to abandon you to such a fate.” His arms surrounded her, his embrace all that she would ever need. “Know that I shall treasure the gift of your love always,” he said. “Though you should be aware that you hold my heart hostage in return.”

“I vow to protect it as it so rightly deserves.” She reached up and eased some of the soot from his face, then held up that finger in accusation. “You, sir, have need of a bath.”

“And shall I bathe alone?”

“Never again!”

Alexander laughed and Eleanor was happy as she had never known herself to be. Anthony cleared his throat at close proximity, then offered something to his laird which he kept hidden in his hand. “You might be desirous of this, my lord,” he said, then smiled at Eleanor. “Welcome home, my lady.”

“Home,” Eleanor repeated and felt those tears rose again.

Alexander opened his hand to reveal his mother’s emerald ring and his eyes lit. “This would belong on this finger,” he said, lifting her left hand and holding the ring above her hand. He arched a brow at her and Eleanor pushed her ring through the circle of gold, accepting once again what he offered her.

“You, sir, have need of a son,” she said with force.

“I have need of my lady’s healing caress,” he said, then claimed her lips in a possessive kiss. Eleanor met his embrace with a passion of her own, not caring who witnessed their ardor. As always, his touch set her to simmering and she found herself anxious to retire to the solar and that great bed.

The assembly cheered all around them and when Alexander finally lifted his head, Eleanor realized that her hand gently rested upon the bump on the back of his head.

It was not large, but neither was it small.

She frowned at him in mock consternation. “A fortnight abed, my lord, and not one moment less. That is what will see you cured.”

“A man of honor can only cede to his lady’s every command,” Alexander said, his eyes alight with a wicked gleam.

Eleanor laughed, then stretched to her toes to kiss him fully, liking well how Alexander responded to her caress. His conquest of her reluctant heart was a victory to be celebrated indeed.

Epilogue

It was October at Kinfairlie and Alexander knew there was mischief afoot in his hall.

Kinfairlie had hosted its first fall fair just the month before, and this with Eleanor’s sage counsel. Although there were matters that could be improved in future, he considered it to have been a success. His borders were secure, there were a few coins in his coffers. There had been seed at Tivotdale that they had claimed in the spring and the weather had been perfect. The harvest had been a good one.

Alexander was sufficiently content that he did not trouble himself over some measure of mischief. His three younger sisters were smug, and he caught them giggling at some secret they would not confess. Even Eleanor, ripe and round with his child, seemed to hold some detail from him. He did not beg after the tale, indeed he feigned obliviousness of their many hints for he knew these portents well.

There was a jest in the offing, and he was to be the butt of that jest. He did not fear that it was a foul trick, for his wife was clearly engaged in this mischief. Indeed, so secretive was her manner that she might have been its instigator, and this possibility lightened his heart. The lady had fairly blossomed since they had wed, and Alexander knew it was her true nature that revealed itself. That she trusted him sufficiently to make a jest, even one at his expense, was merry news indeed.

Alexander only hoped that the four women would spare a measure of his pride, though he doubted it would be done.

* * *

Alexander forgot all about his suspicions on the day that Eleanor began her labor. The babe came earlier than expected and the entire household was set to scrambling when her water broke. Alexander found himself grateful that Jeannie had not been seen since her departure from his hall, for he would not have trusted her to aid Eleanor in the birth of their child.

Women raced hither and yon, kettles of steaming water were carried to the solar, and a runner was dispatched to a midwife. Eleanor was led to the great bed in the solar, Annelise supporting her, and Vera and Moira took joint charge of the proceedings.

Only Alexander was left with no deed to fulfill. Indeed, he was forbidden by those two doughty maids to so much as enter his own chamber.

“I must be by my lady’s side,” he argued, knowing full well that his case was lost.

“It is no place for a man, my lord,” insisted Moira.

“It is oft said that the man who attends the birth of his own child will never regard his wife the same way,” counseled Vera.

Eleanor screamed then, all three of them wincing as one. “We have a long day ahead of us, my lord,” Moira said with false cheer.

“The first babe always takes the longest,” agreed Vera. The two smiled at Alexander with a pert confidence he could not bring himself to share. Elizabeth and Isabella arrived then, breathless from running, and the maids ushered them into the chamber with a nod. “My lady will appreciate your comfort,” Vera said.

“But...” Alexander protested, reaching for the latch.

“We shall summon you, my lord, though it will not likely be soon,” Moira said with crisp authority. Then the women ducked into the solar and closed the portal firmly in Alexander’s face.

He stomped down to his hall in poor temper. Eleanor screamed again, her last cry ending with a gasp that made him shudder.

“Her cries are not close together as yet, my lord,” Anthony counseled, offering his laird a cup of ale. “The babe will not arrive soon.”

Alexander spared his castellan a telling glance, accepted the ale and drank half of it in one swallow.

But there was no lie in either prediction. The day stretched long and Alexander paced the hall so diligently that he swore he would wear a trough in the floor. Eleanor cried out at intervals, her cries becoming ever louder and more close together. When night began to darken the hall and the child had not yet arrived, Alexander wondered how his father had endured this ordeal eight times—no less how his mother had done so.

“It has not been so long as that, sir, though truly it seems as much.” Anthony placed another cup of ale upon the board before his master, along with a slice of bread and some cheese.

“The better part of a day is long enough!” Alexander protested.

“There are those women who labor for several days and nights before the child sees fit to emerge,” Anthony asserted with an acceptance of that fact that Alexander found galling. “I do not doubt that your lady feels the passage of time even more onerously than you.”

“I do not doubt as much myself, Anthony.” Alexander drank some of the ale, then began to pace the hall again. He was restless beyond all.

“You seek a task in this,” his castellan said. “But truly, my lord, your part in this quest was completed many months ago.”

“I thank you for reminding me that I am responsible for my lady’s anguish,” Alexander said and the castellan shook his head.

“It is natural, my lord, and Lady Eleanor is both young and hale,” he said. “From my understanding, there is little to fear before the second day.”

Alexander straightened. “Thank you, Anthony. I shall pray that the lady’s ordeal ends soon.”

Eleanor punctuated that comment with a bellow both louder and longer than any previous. There was a cheer from the solar and the murmur of encouraging voices.

“The babe,” Anthony whispered.

“I cannot bear it,” Alexander said, as his wife cried out again and did so even more loudly. The women cloistered with Eleanor cried encouragement and he could not linger in the hall any longer.

There was a bustle at the portal to the hall, but Alexander did not care. He made for the stairs with purpose, knowing that two older women would not halt him this time, despite their convictions.

Anthony cleared his throat with sudden volume. “You have a visitor, my lord.”

“He or she can wait until the morrow,” Alexander said tersely, not sparing a backward glance. “Please ensure that our guest is made comfortable, but I have neither time nor patience to entertain on this day.”

“You may think otherwise once you know who I am,” an unfamiliar voice said with some humor.

Alexander turned partway up the stairs to find an older man standing in his hall. That man had a bright eye and stood with an expectant manner. He was not young, his hair a thick mane of white, his garb was most expensive. Rings adorned most of his fingers, his tabard was richly embellished with golden embroidery, and a fur-lined cloak in lavish black spilled over his shoulders. Four pages hovered behind him, their manner attentive and their garb echoing the man’s colors.

Alexander forced a thin smile. “I doubt as much,” he said politely. “As you may have ascertained, my wife labors to deliver our child and she is my sole concern on this evening.” He gestured to Anthony. “All the same, I bid you welcome to Kinfairlie and anticipate that we shall become better acquainted on the morrow. Until then, my abode is as yours.”

Eleanor cried out again and Alexander spared a nod for guest and castellan. He had barely taken a step before another cry carried to his ears.

It was the cry of a baby.

The women cheered above him and Alexander took the remaining stairs three at a time. He burst into his own chamber, and saw to his relief that Eleanor yet lived. He went directly to her side and kissed her hand, then her brow. “How do you fare?”

“I am glad to see this task complete,” she said, smiling at him through her exhaustion. Her brow was damp with perspiration and the linens were soaked with blood, but she was alive and flushed in the face.

“As am I.”

“Tell me, Alexander, are you committed to having eight children, as your parents did?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.

“One will suffice,” he said with vigor, uncertain whether he could endure more days like this one.

“Surely you have need of a son?” Eleanor teased. Her eyes sparkled with uncommon humor, though Alexander did not comprehend her jest.

“A son or daughter will suit me well,” he said. “So long as my lady is hale.”

Eleanor smiled. “Fool man,” she whispered, no censure in her voice. “A son is what you need, even more than most men do.”

Isabella eased to Alexander’s side, a plump bundle in her arms. “Look!” she said, with such pride that the child might have been her own. She offered the babe to Alexander and he smiled at its ruddy-faced indignation. He accepted its burden with care and it promptly bellowed with greater gusto.

He had no time to ask its gender, much less why his lady wife was so insistent upon having a son, before the women gasped in collective dismay.

“Who are you?” Vera cried. “And what makes you imagine you have a place in this chamber?”

“You will not look upon my lady in this state,” Moira exclaimed and cast a clean linen sheet across Eleanor’s knees.

“Sir!” Alexander stood at the sight of his guest in this chamber at this time. The older man looked about himself with some interest, as if assessing Alexander’s very worth by his furnishings. “You go too far in this! It is scarcely the place of a guest to look upon my lady in such a state.” He and Vera made to block that man’s passage, but the older man only arched a brow at this obstacle.

He peered over their shoulders and smiled thinly. “Good evening, Eleanor,” he said crisply.

Eleanor, to Alexander’s shock, sat up, straightened her chemise and smoothed her hair. “Good afternoon, my lord Reinhard.”

“You know him?” Alexander asked in an undertone.

Eleanor nodded. “I invited him to Kinfairlie, that he might arrive for this day as our guest.”

Reinhard tut-tutted. “Though your summons should have been more urgently stated. You told me, in fact, that the child would not arrive for at least another week. You are early in bringing this child forth into the world, Eleanor, and very nearly lost all in so doing.”

“I am sorry, my lord.” Eleanor dropped her gaze demurely.

“It is not her fault, my lord,” Moira said, standing beside Eleanor as if she meant to protect her. “A babe will come in its own time.”

“And there are witnesses aplenty, should you have arrived later,” Elizabeth noted. She moved to stand by Eleanor’s side, as if defending her. Alexander watched Annelise stand beside Elizabeth, while Isabella straightened beside him.

“What does this mean?” Alexander asked. “What is the import of this?”

They ignored him.

“I scarce made it here in time to witness the deed, and no matter what you believe, it is critical that I do witness the babe’s arrival,” Reinhard huffed.

“Is the child not hale?” Alexander demanded, fearful now of what they meant. He looked down at the bundle in his arms.

Eleanor grasped his hand. “The babe is fine.”

Alexander looked between the pair in confusion.

Reinhard snapped his fingers and one of his pages—all of whom had also followed him into the solar, to the dismay of Moira and Vera—surrendered a feathered quill to him. Reinhard snapped his finger again and was given a scroll of vellum adorned with an impressive number of ribbons. He unfurled it, revealing the many red wax seals upon it, and cleared his throat.

Then he eased aside the sheet over Eleanor’s knees with the tip of the quill.

“What folly is this?” Alexander roared. “I protest this indignity shown to my wife!”

“It must be done,” Eleanor said.

“Let him do what he must,” Isabella counseled, putting a restraining hand upon Alexander’s elbow. They had both been struck mad, Alexander was certain of it, not to find this man’s very manner offensive.

“It appears that you have indeed borne a child very recently, Eleanor.” Reinhard said with some approval.

“Indeed, I have, my lord.”

“It would have been ideal, of course, for me to have witnessed the birth and thus to have ensured there to be no doubt that this child came from your womb, but one must make do with one’s opportunities, I suppose.”

“I apologize again, my lord.”

Reinhard harrumphed and made a notation upon his parchment, then looked about the chamber. His gaze fell upon the child in Alexander’s arms and he crossed the room. “And this would be the infant in question?”

“Of course,” the women replied in unison.

“What is the reason for this madness?” Alexander asked but Eleanor hushed him with a fingertip upon his elbow.

“Trust me,” she whispered. Her eyes sparkled so merrily that he was more reassured by her manner than any words she might have uttered.

Reinhard, who was clearly not enamored of small children, used the feathered tip of his quill to push aside the swaddling. His lip curled slightly, though he persisted. The babe’s small penis was soon revealed, though the boy protested this intimacy with another wail.

“A boy,” Reinhard said, then nodded approval at Eleanor. “Well done.”

“I strove to ensure as much, my lord,” she said, sparing a smile for Alexander. She squeezed his hand, her eyes dancing with such delight that he was both charmed and confused.

“But what is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

Reinhard straightened, insulted at this question. “You do not know?”

Alexander shook his head. His sisters giggled and nudged each other.

The older man looked at Eleanor. “You did not tell him?”

She flushed. “He wed me for my own merit.”

“Truly?” Reinhard blinked. He looked between the wedded pair with some astonishment, then shook his head. “And they say the world is not full of marvels in these days,” he mused.

“I take exception to that. My lady is a marvel in and of herself...”

Reinhard waved Alexander to silence. “I do not argue that, sir. My point is simply that a man who looks beyond the weight of his own purse is a marvel.” He fixed Alexander with a bright eye. “And you would be the father of this child?”

“I am.”

“Beyond doubt?”

Alexander bridled but Eleanor silenced him with a touch. “Be not insulted,” she counseled. “For there is much at stake.” Then she spoke to Reinhard. “We were wedded on Christmas Day, my lord, and I have known no other man since that time.”

“That would be more than ten months past. Excellent.” Reinhard made another notation, his quill pausing above the vellum. “And your full name and title, sir, would be?”

“Alexander Lammergeier, Laird of Kinfairlie,” Eleanor supplied when Alexander might have argued this man’s familiarity.

“Excellent.” Reinhard marked his vellum with a flourish, then snapped his fingers again. He surrendered both vellum and quill to his squires, then sent them all scampering with a murmured command. Then he folded his hands together and returned Alexander’s glance, saying nothing at all.

The chamber filled with expectant silence. After a moment, Reinhard returned to his survey of the solar’s contents. Alexander frowned the guest peered at a stool, as if finding it lacking some attribute, but Eleanor shook her head minutely.

The boys returned momentarily, bearing chests that were small but obviously weighty. “And where would you like the coin to be secured, Laird Alexander?” Reinhard asked. Four pages and an elderly man turned their expectant gazes upon him.

“What coin?” Alexander asked.

Reinhard, against expectation, smiled thinly. “You truly did not know. Allow me to properly introduce myself.”

Alexander did not comment that such an introduction was past due.

“I am Reinhard von Heigel, the friend and confidant of the late Etienne Havilland, Baron of Breton. Etienne, of course, was the father of your wife, and appointed me to execute his will.” Every soul in the chamber crossed herself and Reinhard nodded acknowledgement of the courtesy.

He then continued. “Etienne insisted that his legacy could only pass to a male heir and thus, when he knew himself to be possessed solely of a daughter, he stipulated that his estate would remain in trust until his daughter Eleanor gave birth to a son. Etienne decreed that the father of that son would be his heir and that I, should he depart this world before me, should act as trustee of those funds.”

Reinhard cleared his throat and gave Eleanor a stern glance. “I must confess that I had hoped that Eleanor would deliver of a son much sooner than this. The burden of managing Etienne’s considerable wealth has been onerous. In truth, I feared that I would meet my own demise before an heir had been produced.” He smiled tightly. “I congratulate you both on ensuring that prospect was never realized.”

“Wealth?” Alexander echoed, eying the chests with new certainty of their contents.

“Wealth aplenty,” Reinhard declared. He flicked open each trunk, revealing each one to be filled with coins. One held gold coins, the other three were filled with silver ones. “Which was why, sir, I asked where you would see your inheritance secured.”

Anthony coughed delicately, drawing every eye, including Alexander’s for he had not realized that his castellan had joined the growing company in the solar. “I would suggest, my lord, that the coin be counted before it is accepted in Kinfairlie’s treasury, the better to ensure that all has been delivered as anticipated.”

“A most prudent notion,” Reinhard said. They looked to Alexander once again. His sisters were grinning, waiting to see how he would accept this extraordinary fortune.

“You knew of this,” he said to Eleanor.

“Why do you think that men have desired so ardently to wed me?” she asked and he shook his head.

“I can think of a thousand reasons beyond this one.”

The lady’s answering smile was all the reward he could have hoped to win. He perched on the side of their bed and she caressed the cheek of their son. Alexander wanted nothing more than to explore the child’s marvels with Eleanor.

“Look at his tiny fingers and toes,” Isabella whispered with awe.

“He is perfect,” Annelise whispered in her turn.

“As is his mother,” Alexander said and Eleanor flushed crimson.

Anthony cleared his throat pointed. “My lord?”

“On the floor above this one, Anthony, we will use the chamber with three windows as our counting room,” Alexander said decisively without glancing up. “Please ensure that the windows are secured from the inside and that a guard is placed upon the portal. Only you or I shall be admitted once the coin has been secured, and once that coin is secured, I would bid you offer my finest hospitality to our esteemed guest, Lord Reinhard.”

“Very good, my lord.” With Anthony’s bow, the men finally left the solar.

“Praise be,” Vera muttered. “I thought they would never leave!”

“Men in the birthing room,” Moira clucked. “It is shocking.”

“Strangers even,” Vera agreed with no small measure of indignation. She then patted the boy’s cheek with a fingertip. “You are a clever one, lad, seeing yourself in an affluent household from the first!” The babe gurgled, seemingly content to be cosseted by his father now. “We can expect much from this one, to be sure.”

“His presence is sufficient,” Eleanor declared.

“You should have seen your face!” Elizabeth said, poking Alexander in the arm. She then mimicked the fierce scowl that Alexander had presumably shown moments before. “I thought you might cast him out the window!”

“It is good that you did not, for he might have taken insult,” Annelise said.

“Think of all that coin, Alexander,” Isabella whispered. “Think of what might be done with it.”

Alexander looked down at his smiling wife and held her gaze. He knew full well what he would do with it and he imagined that their thoughts were as one. Kinfairlie had some debt, to be sure, but nothing to match the sum of coin Eleanor had brought to his coffers.

“Strangely,” he mused. “I find myself envisioning three weddings that will be the talk of all of Christendom, so beauteous will be the brides at each of them.”

His sisters roared outrage as one and Alexander laughed at them.

“Of course, each maiden will choose the man she loves best to be her spouse,” Eleanor interjected. “And will do so in her own time.”

Alexander claimed his wife’s hand with his own. “And until that moment and beyond it, Kinfairlie will be secured.”

Eleanor sighed contentment and the pair shared a smile that fairly heated the chamber. “Begone all of you,” Alexander roared with mock outrage. “I would have a moment with my lady wife.” They all left, complaining as they did, and once the portal was firmly closed, he bent toward Eleanor. “For it is she and no other who is the crown jewel of Kinfairlie,” he murmured before his lips closed over hers.

The lady did not seem inclined to argue with that.

The Ballad of Rosamunde

This short story,

“The Ballad of Rosamunde”,

was originally published as part of the anthology,

THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF IRISH ROMANCE.

It was edited due to space constraints in that volume.

The entire text appears here.

Galway, Ireland—April 1422

The hour was late and the tavern was crowded. Padraig sat near the hearth, watching the firelight play over the faces of the men gathered there. The ale launched a warm hum within him, the closest he was ever like to be to the heat of the Mediterranean sun again.

He should have gone south, as Rosamunde had bidden him to do. He should have sold her ship and its contents, as she had instructed him. Galway was as far as he had managed to sail from Kinfairlie—and he had only come this far because his crew had compelled him to leave the site of disaster.

Where Rosamunde had been lost forever.

Instead he had returned here, to the site of his upbringing, to his mother’s grave and the tavern run by his sister and her husband. It had an allure for him, with the bustling port and the cobbled streets, the high gates and the memories, but he would trade it in a heartbeat for a voyage over the seas with Rosamunde.

Perhaps Galway would have to do.

Padraig enjoyed music, always had, and song was the only solace he found in the absence of Rosamunde’s company. He found his foot tapping and his cares lifting as a local man sang of adventure.

“A song!” cried Declan, the keeper, when one rollicking tune came to an end. “Who else has a song?”

“Padraig!” shouted his sister. She was a pretty woman, albeit one who tolerated no nonsense. Padraig suspected there were those more afraid of her than her husband. Much like their mother in that. “Sing the sad one you began the other night,” she entreated.

“There are others of better voice,” Padraig protested.

The company roared a protest in unison, and so he acquiesced. Padraig sipped his ale, then pushed to his feet to sing the ballad of his own composition.

“Rosamunde was a pirate queen

With hair red gold and eyes of green.

A trade in relics did she pursue,

Plus perfume and silks of every hue.

Her ship’s hoard was a rich treasury,

Of prizes gathered on every sea.

But the fairest gem in all the hold

Was Rosamunde, beauteous and bold.

Her blade was quick, her foresight sharp,

She conquered hearts in every port.”

“Ah!” sighed the older man across the table from Padraig. “There be a woman worth the loss of one’s heart.”

The company nodded approval and leaned closer for the next verse. Even his sister stopped serving, leaning against the largest keg in the tavern, smiling as she watched Padraig.

“Trade in relics, both false and true

Her family trade she did pursue.

No man cheated her and told of it,

For Rosamunde allowed no debt.

She vanquished foes on every sea

But lost her heart to a man esteemed.

Surrender was not her nature true

But bow to his desires, she did do.

She left the sea to become his bride,

But in her lover’s home, Rosamunde died.

The man she loved was not her worth...”

Padraig faltered. His compatriots in the tavern waited expectantly, but he could not think of a suitable rhyme. He remembered the sight of Ravensmuir’s cliffs and caverns collapsing to rubble, the dust rising, his men holding him captive so that he couldn’t dive into the disaster in search of Rosamunde. He put down his tankard with dissatisfaction, singing the last line again softly. It made no difference. He had composed a hundred rhymes, if not a thousand, but this particular tale caught in his throat like none other.

“Her absence was to all a dearth,” his sister suggested.

Her husband snorted. “You’ve no music in your veins, woman, that much is for certain.”

“The son she bore him died at birth,” the old man across the table suggested.

Padraig shook his head and frowned. “There was no child.”

“There could be,” the old man insisted. “’Tis only a tale, after all.” The others laughed.

But this was not only a tale. It was the truth. Rosamunde had existed, she had been a pirate queen, she had sailed far and wide in the buying and selling of religious relics, she had been both beauteous and bold.

And she had been lost forever, thanks to the faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered everything.

Padraig mourned that truth every day and night of his life.

He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should win her company for all eternity.

Because Padraig had loved her truly.

His mother had warned him that he was his father’s son, that he would be smitten once and his heart lost forever. It had shocked him all the same to find her counsel true.

But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the fullness of his heart.

Now he would never have the chance to remedy his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had collapsed and Rosamunde had been lost forever, and still Padraig’s wound was raw.

He doubted it would ever heal.

He knew he’d never meet the like of her again.

Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his ale. “Let another sing,” he said. “I am too besotted to compose the verse.”

“Another tale!” shouted the keeper. “Come, Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.” The company stamped their feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favorite, and Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the room.

He, however, had lost his taste for tales. He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and headed for the door.

“We will miss your custom this evening,” his sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly in the shadowed tavern, and he knew that she saw more of his heart than any other. She never asked for details, though, simply offered him a place to stay.

“A man should be valued for more than the volume of ale he can drink,” Padraig replied, blaming himself for what he had become. His sister flushed as if he had chided her and turned away. Padraig raised a hand toward her, not having wanted to share his anguish, but she bustled away to serve another patron.

He could do nothing right.

Not without Rosamunde.

Was her loss to be the shadow over all his days and nights?

* * *

Far beneath the hills to the north of Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe, templed his fingers together and considered the chess board. It was a beautiful chess board, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board itself wrought of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across the board at his unspoken will. His entire fey court gathered around the game, watching with bright eyes.

Finvarra was tall and slim, finely wrought even for the fey, who were uncommonly handsome. His eyes were as dark as a midnight sky, his long hair the deep blue black of the sea in darkness, his skin as fair as moonlight, his tread as light as wind in the grass. He was possessed of both kindness and resolve, and ruled the fey well.

His hall at Knockma was under the hill, and as lavish a court as could be found. The ladies wore glistening gowns of finest silk, their gossamer wings painted with a thousand colors. The courtiers were armed in silver finery, their manners both fierce and gallant, their eyes glinting with humor. The horses of Finvarra’s court were spirited and fleet of foot, gleaming and beauteous in their rich trappings hung with silver bells. He had steeds of every color, red stallions and white mares, black stallions and mahogany mares with ivory socks. Each and every one was caparisoned in finery to show its hue and strength to advantage. The mead was sweet and golden in Finvarra’s hall, and the cups at the board filled themselves with more when no one was looking.

But all the fairy court was silent, clustered around their king’s favored chessboard. They watched, knowing that more than victory at a game hung in the balance.

As usual.

Finvarra did not care for low stakes.

Finvarra played to win.

The spriggan, Darg, sat opposite the king and fidgeted. Recently of Scotland, the small thieving fairy had traveled to Ireland in the hold of the ship of Padraig Deane, a blue-eyed and handsome pirate possessed of a broken heart. Caught trespassing in Finvarra’s sid, a crime punishable by death, the spriggan played for its life.

Finvarra, in truth, tired of the game. The spoils were not so remarkable and the spriggan was a mediocre opponent. The splendor of the board, indeed, he felt was wasted upon the rough little creature. Certainly, his skill was.

Then Finvarra heard the distant lilt of human song.

“Rosamunde was a pirate queen

With hair red gold and eyes of green...”

As was common with Finvarra, the mention of a beauteous mortal woman piqued his interest. He turned his head to listen, just as the spriggan interrupted with a hiss.

“A laughing trickster Rosamunde did be, but she did not have the best of me.”

“You knew this mortal?”

Darg raised a fist. “Stole from me! That she dared, but I did steal her from her laird. She would be dead but for me; now she owes me her fealty.” The spriggan cackled, then moved a pawn with care. It was a poor choice. “Not dead but enchanted she doth be, while I choose what my vengeance shall be.”

Intrigued, Finvarra snapped his fingers and his wife, Una, brought his silver mirror to his hand. She knew him well. She caressed his hand as she passed the mirror to him, but Finvarra ignored her gesture of affection.

He didn’t imagine her sniff of displeasure, but Una’s pleasure was not his current concern. Not when there was a beauteous woman to be possessed. He murmured to the mirror and its surface swirled before his eyes, the image of this Rosamunde appearing so suddenly that Finvarra caught his breath.

Then his blood quickened.

Una, always able to read his response, spun on her heel. She strode from the hall, her ladies scurrying after her like so many sparrows. Finvarra was oblivious to his wife’s mood.

This Rosamunde was not just beautiful, but there was a set to her chin that hinted at a spirited nature.

Finvarra had to know more. He touched the queen, his favored piece, sliding his finger up her carved back. She strolled across the board in perfect understanding of his intent, halted on the desired spot and tucked her hands into her sleeves meekly.

If only all queens might be so biddable.

“Check,” he murmured with a smile.

“No! I shall not die, not by your whim!” The spriggan erupted from its place in fury, jumping across the board and kicking pieces left and right. “I demand we play the game again!”

Finvarra shook his head.

The spriggan scattered the pieces onto the earthen floor, then lunged at Finvarra. There was no contest between them, the spriggan being only as tall as the king’s golden chalice. Finvarra struck the ill-tempered creature with the back of his hand, sending it sprawling across the floor.

The elegantly-attired fey stepped away from the spriggan, whispering at its poor manners. It hissed at all of them, then made to run. Two elfin knights seized it, holding tightly while it bit and struggled.

“I have no interest in your life,” Finvarra said with soft authority. The spriggan froze, staring at him in confusion. It was a crafty creature and Finvarra deliberately stated his terms so that there could be no deception. “I would trade your life for a specific treasure in your possession.”

Darg’s eyes narrowed into hostile slits. “No gem do I see fit to spare...”

“The woman,” Finvarra decreed, interrupting what would likely be an impolite diatribe. “I trade your life for that of your captive, Rosamunde.”

The spriggan regarded him warily. “I fear you make a jest of me, and would be freed ’fore I agree.”

Finvarra rose and clapped his hands. “There is no jest. When Rosamunde graces my court, you shall be free to leave.” He reached forward and snatched at the spriggan, holding it so surely in his grip that it paled. He lowered his face to its sharp features, glaring into its eyes. Darg squirmed. “Deceive me, though, and I will have your life as well as the woman.”

Darg’s eyes gleamed and Finvarra knew the creature would willingly deceive him. He beckoned to his armorer, who produced a fine red thread at his master’s bidding. Finvarra knotted that thread securely around the spriggan’s waist. It appeared to be made of silk but was strong beyond measure and it held the spriggan to Finvarra’s command. The small fairy struggled and fought against the bond, grimacing where it touched the skin.

“It burns, it does, the knot too tight,” Darg snarled. “You cheat when I would do what’s right!”

“Only I can unbind this thread, and I will only do so when you have fulfilled our bargain.”

Darg continued to pluck at the thread, its displeasure clear. It cast a glance over the company, then its lips tightened. It straightened and addressed him with surprising hauteur. “As you command, so shall it be. You shall see that Darg lives honestly.”

Finvarra smothered a laugh. He didn’t doubt that the creature would try to break both cord and vow, but he knew such efforts were doomed to failure. “Tomorrow sunset,” he decreed. “I would have her by my side for the Beltane ride two nights hence.”

The spriggan grimaced at the time constraint, but before it could argue, Finvarra made a dismissive gesture. “It is enough time. Should it not be...” He raised a brow and the thread bound around the spriggan’s waist tightened an increment. Darg screamed, swore agreement, then scampered across the court, muttering. Three elven knights followed it at a discrete distance, ensuring that it left the hall upon its mission.

Finvarra eyed the path Una had taken, heard the distant sound of her sobs, and decided to remain in his hall a bit longer. He clapped and called for music, for he was feeling as celebratory as Una was not.

After all, soon he would have a new prize to savor.

* * *

Rosamunde dreamed.

If she had been asked, she would have said that her expectation was to dream of Tynan through all eternity. But her dream took her farther into the past, to an abbey on the coast of Ireland.

She had been summoned there by the bishop, anxious to increase the revenue of his remote diocese with the acquisition of a holy relic. Pilgrims brought coin, and the faithful had already made their journey to Compostela. Many did not have the inclination—or the funds—to travel to the Holy Land itself. This bishop saw opportunity, as did many of his ilk.

He had not been pleased to have a woman answer his summons, however. Although she knew nothing of him, Rosamunde was well accustomed to his perspective. He had addressed her man first, assuming him to be the leader, but Eugene had been quick to step back and gesture to Rosamunde.

The bishop’s lips had tightened, and Rosamunde had been certain of his intent to cheat her.

They had met in a cell that had been used by a solitary monk centuries past, the cone-shaped dwelling of fitted stones perched on the coast. The remote setting had been convenient both for Rosamunde’s ship and had provided the discretion necessary for such a purchase.

It was also dangerous, a treacherous facet of her trade.

It had been a windy night, with storm clouds rolling from the western horizon. The flame had danced wildly above the bishop’s lantern, even inside the cell. That man had been swathed in a great dark cloak, its hood drawn to disguise his features, and accompanied by a pair of men.

They stood silently behind their lord, one at his left and one at his right. They wore no livery and their expressions were impassive. Rosamunde did not doubt that they were instructed to forget whatsoever they saw on this night. Whichever relic the bishop chose would be ‘discovered’ in the crypt of the church shortly.

One man had eyes of brilliant blue and a steady gaze. He watched Rosamunde openly, which surprised her. She strove to ignore him.

“I expected Gawain Lammergeier!” the bishop complained.

Rosamunde smiled. “My father surrendered the family trade to me some years past. He sails forth no longer.”

“Have you not a brother?”

“My brother chose the family holding as his legacy.”

The bishop snorted in disapproval of the situation. It was clear that he did not want to trade with her, but at the same time, he wanted a relic. His pale hands moved with agitation beneath the hems of his sleeves.

“Perhaps you would like to see what I have brought,” she said, knowing he would be tempted. She had brought the best of her current inventory, after all.

First there had been an embroidered blue cloth, purported to have been worn by the Virgin. It had the muck of authenticity about it, but its appearance did not inspire devotion. The bishop made some cursory remark in praise of it.

There had been a broken crown of thorns, one possessing the best provenance of any Rosamunde had seen in recent years. It was likely still a fake. Rosamunde had seen too many crowns of thorns to have faith in any of them. The bishop stroked it, admired it, considered it seriously.

“How many crowns of thorns can there be, my lord?” asked the man with the blue eyes. “There is said to be one in Paris and another in Palestine.”

“Is this the genuine one?” the bishop demanded.

Rosamunde shrugged. “Who can say?”

The bishop drummed his fingers. “There must be no question of authenticity, and I cannot imagine how the crown of thorns might have made its way this far.”

Finally, there was a coil of dark hair. Clearly old, it was still lustrous and long, braided neatly. There was a faint scent of perfume to it, although Rosamunde suspected that this had been enhanced over the years. Best of all, it was encased in a jeweled reliquary of masterful craftsmanship, adorned with images of Jesus treating Lazarus. That reliquary was within a wooden box of no apparent distinction.

Although the bishop grimaced at the sight of the wooden box, his eyes lit when the reliquary was revealed. “What is that?”

“It is said to be the hair of Mary, the daughter of Lazarus.” Rosamunde opened the reliquary and the bishop took a deep, delighted breath. “She who anointed Jesus with perfume when he came to her father’s house and washed his feet with her hair.”

The bishop pretended to be torn, but Rosamunde knew which he would choose. And choose the hair, he did. They negotiated the price, then he gestured to the man behind him.

The other man, the one with the compelling blue gaze, watched Rosamunde steadily throughout the whole transaction. She sensed that he also knew the bishop intended to cheat her. She locked her hands behind her back, giving Eugene a silent and hidden signal.

The exchange was made, the coin counted and deposited in Rosamunde’s purse, the relic and its reliquary surrendered to the bishop’s man. Complements and formalities were exchanged. They parted, Rosamunde’s intuition warning her all the while. Eugene was at her back as they left the cell, both of them scanning the land to the left and right as they returned to the dingy.

Rosamunde was glad to see her ship, still moored where she had left it. The light at the stern had been lit, the one with the red filter, so she knew that the ship had not been assaulted in her absence. There was no sound of pursuit.

Perhaps her intuition had been wrong.

She emitted a high whistle, a signal to Thomas waiting in the dingy out of sight. She and Eugene broke into a run, anxious to be away.

Rosamunde was not prepared to find Thomas dead, bleeding in the bottom of the boat.

She was not prepared to have two other men assault her in the darkness, to be leapt upon and beaten. It happened quickly, upon turf she did not know. The purse was ripped from her belt, Eugene was stabbed, the other two relics fell to the ground.

Her blade was snatched, she was struck across the face and fell to her knees. A man seized her from behind. The other attacker lunged toward her, his blade flashing, and Rosamunde feared she was done.

She certainly was not expecting the blue-eyed man to leap out of the shadows behind her attacker.

“Oi!” he shouted and the attacker spun in surprise.

The blue-eyed man sliced him from gullet to groin and kicked his carcass into the sea. The one holding Rosamunde released her and ran. The bishop’s man pursued him, stabbed him until he moved no more, then returned to Rosamunde.

She meet the determination in his gaze as he handed her the fully laden purse that had been stolen from her.

“I sicken of his thievery,” he said softly, his voice as steady as his gaze. Rosamunde checked Eugene and was glad to find that he yet breathed. The blue-eyed man helped her move him to the dingy, Eugene wincing as he was rolled into the boat. Thomas, unfortunately, was beyond aid. Rosamunde would see him buried at sea, which would have been his choice.

She looked up at the man who had saved her. “I thank you for your aid.”

“You are most welcome.” He glanced inland, then back at her and smiled, a quick conspiratorial smile. “I fear I have lost my employ this night. Have you need of another man on your ship?”

Rosamunde found herself liking this man a great deal. “I always have need of men with stout hearts and quick blades.” The bishop’s henchmen did not move, a sign of this man’s effectiveness. “Have you a name?”

“Padraig Deane.”

Rosamunde shook his hand, liking the heat of his skin, the firmness of his grip. It was not in her nature to remain on land, and she always yearned to be back at sea. But this man made her think about lingering.

“Welcome, Padraig. There is no better compliment than knowing a man can be trusted with one’s own life.” She saw him smile, glimpsed his flush, then they gathered the relics and the fallen men. She watched the moonlight play on his muscles as he rowed them all back to the ship. He was determined, stalwart, unafraid to do what he believed to be right.

And Rosamunde wondered how she had failed to see the full merit of Padraig in all the years he had served her.

What lifted the scales from her eyes now?

* * *

Padraig wandered the streets of Galway, paying no attention to his course until he reached the gate in the Norman wall. He glanced back toward the harbor, then ahead to the hills cloaked in starlight and shadow. He chose to pass through the gate and walk out of town, knowing that the way was not without risk. He was but half-Irish, half of town and half of country, though there were those who would have little interest in the details.

He did not care about his fate as much as he once had.

And he had no taste for human company on this night. He should love it here, the place where he had been raised, but instead he felt at home only upon the sea.

Rosamunde had been the same way.

He walked as the moon rose ever higher in the sky. He walked as the church bells sounded far behind him. He walked as the stars glinted overhead.

He heard the rustle of small animals in the underbrush and the tinkle of running water. He felt the ale loosen its hold upon his body and grief well in his heart.

He paused in the middle of the road, hours after his departure, and cast a glance back toward the sleeping town. His feet ached and he knew he should turn back.

Padraig just made to do so when he heard a woman singing, singing more beautifully than ever he had heard anyone singing. It could have been an angel he heard, and he was drawn to the sound.

He could not hear the words, and hastened closer.

“Una was the Faerie queen

Fairest woman ever seen

Wed centuries to her king

Love meant more to her than his ring.”

The ground rose ahead of Padraig in a mound, a low hill covered with grass. A circle of large stones surrounded the crest of the hill, like a crown upon it, and a hawthorne tree grew outside the circle of stones.

The hair prickled on the back of his neck for he had learned at his mother’s knee to be cautious in the presence of the fey. If nothing else, this was the kind of place they favored.

He could barely discern the silhouette of a woman atop the hill. She was sitting on a stone in the midst of the circle, combing her long hair, and he knew she was the one who sang. Two women sat at her feet, one with a lyre the like of which Padraig had never seen, the other humming along with her lady. They were all lovely, ethereal in the moonlight.

Her voice had a lovely lilt and Padraig wished to hear more of her song. He walked closer, trying to move silently as he didn’t want to startle the women.

To his astonishment, as soon as he stepped within the circle of stones, the lady with the comb turned to confront him. She smiled, her hand falling to her lap as she sang directly to him.

With proximity, he could see more than her silhouette. Her hair was golden, as bright as sunlight, her eyes as blue as a southern sea. Padraig walked closer, awed by her loveliness.

“But Finvarra had an appetite,

For mortal women, both dark and light.

He vowed he’d have the pirate queen,

Held captive by the spriggan’s greed.

One glimpse of the fair Rosamunde

Had left him filled with lust and love.

And so his wife did come to dread

Her spouse taking Rosamunde to his bed.”

Padraig blinked. Surely she could not be singing of his Rosamunde?

The woman stood up, revealing that she was tall and slender. She wore a dress that was fitted to her curves and swept to her ankles, one as blue as her eyes and rich with golden embroidery. There were gems encrusting the hem and cuffs of the gown, and it seemed to Padraig that her slippers were made of silk the color of moonlight.

Or perhaps she was wrought of moonlight. She seemed insubstantial as she walked toward him, both of this world and not. Was he dreaming? The hem of her skirt seemed to dance with a will of its own, and lights glinted around the perimeter of the stone circle. He remembered will ’o the wisp, the fabled lights of the fey, and knew that he had strayed into their enchanted realm.

Only when the woman was directly before him did he see the numerous small courtiers holding the hem. They could not have stood as high as his knee, not a one of them, and were dressed in green livery. Their faces were sharp, their eyes narrow, and their hair caught with twigs.

Padraig remembered her own words and knew whom he encountered.

The Faerie queen, Una.

“Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many seas,” she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.

“Greetings, beauteous queen.” Padraig bowed deeply, knowing well the price of insulting one of the fey.

“Perhaps you have guessed that I have summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could be as one.”

“Heard my song?” Padraig glanced over his shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town. “But that was miles away. You could not possibly have heard...”

Una laid a fingertip across his lips to silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken velvet.

She smiled. “She is not dead, your Rosamunde.” Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze. “And now my husband, casting his glance over all of Faerie, with aid of his treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means to make her his own on Beltane.”

“I mean no offense, my lady, but Rosamunde is dead,” Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination to trick mortals. “I saw the fallen rock, I tried to retrieve her from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived.”

Una smiled. “The spriggan Darg took her captive when she might have died.”

“Darg!” Padraig exclaimed. He recalled the deceitful spriggan well, and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.

Una watched him carefully. “You know this creature.”

“Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir.”

Una’s smile faded. “No. It came in your ship.”

Padraig frowned. There had been items disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the spriggan liked so well. It was possible that Una spoke the truth.

“It trespassed in our sid. It has wagered with my husband and lost, so it will bring Rosamunde to him tomorrow. You must steal her from him.”

“My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king will not live to tell the tale of it!”

Una smiled. “With my aid, you will not be detected.” She pressed a golden ring into his hand. “Wear this and you shall pass unseen in any company.”

The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand filled Padraig with dread. He was not afraid to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.

“With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.”

Una laughed but not because of his compliment. “You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart.”

“Which is that, my lady?”

Her eyes glinted with humor. “What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?”

Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort? Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.

Una leaned closer. “To have her own way.” Her eyes shone with brilliant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. “I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift.”

“You have already been too kind...”

Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him full on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chill that shook him to his marrow.

And Padraig swooned.

* * *

Rosamunde dreamed of another day in her past.

The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. All the same, Rosamunde’s heart leapt at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as well as the lines of her own hand.

Ravensmuir.

Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently to never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over Rosamunde.

Twice.

In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection, that she would see him again.

But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig, of their final parting.

Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologized to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.

And he had died.

Had she not died, as well?

Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tall and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.

By his masculinity.

With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company. Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter, he was clever, he dared to challenge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.

Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind folly.

“I will go into the caverns alone,” she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day, she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.

“I will accompany you,” Padraig said, determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into the shadows so others would not be compelled to do so.

She and Padraig had walked the periphery of society together, daring all as they challenged convention.

At each other’s backs.

While Tynan had upheld convention. He had found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favors abed, but he had never respected her or intended to honor her. It was no surprise in hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in truth.

“No, not this time,” she argued in her dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.

She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the ardor in his eyes. She saw his fear for her. She saw his valor and his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.

And Rosamunde regretted that she had surrendered her love to the wrong man.

She had suspected as much on that day. The ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic haste. “Take the ship,” she told him, in this dream as she had then. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.”

It had been their jest, all those years, that they would one day sell everything and live out their lives in Sicily. They had both preferred the sun’s sultry heat there to the chill of the north.

“But what of the contents?” Padraig’s displeasure was clear.

“Sell them, sell them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.”

“But...”

“I owe you no less for all your years of faithful service.” It was a facile lie and they both had known it, even then.

“But the ship?”

“Sell it as well, or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig.” Rosamunde uttered that heartfelt sigh, acknowledging the shadow of dread that touched her heart. “I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.”

It was a lie. She had never had Tynan’s love. She had had the illusion of his love, and had been seduced by that. She had had no more than the physical expression of his love, and that was a paltry offering.

On the other hand, Rosamunde saw in her dream that Padraig’s love had been before her, awaiting her invitation, for years.

“You will fare well enough,” she said in her dream, and the declaration of her gift of foresight struck her as ironic. “I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see will be true.”

“What do you see for yourself?” Padraig asked softly, his survey of her so searching that Rosamunde could scarce hold his gaze. He frowned and looked away. “I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes.”

There was a truth in his claim that she had missed on that red-stained morning. She declared her destiny to be at Ravensmuir, seeing in her dream how the notion displeased Padraig.

How could she have missed such an offering?

How could she have overlooked the affection of one who knew her better than she knew herself? She had been a fool and lost her life because of it. If only she had another chance, she would seize the opportunity Padraig offered.

“Farewell, Padraig,” she heard herself say. “May the wind always fill your sails when you have need of it.”

And Padraig embraced her, catching her close. She could feel the muscled strength of him, the resolve of him, the power he oft held in check. In her dream, she closed her eyes and savored what she had lost through her own folly.

His voice was husky when he spoke. “We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I will consider you to be my friend.” His blue eyes filled with heat as he regarded her. “You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other.”

“No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you,” she said, her heart aching at her own folly.

“I did,” Padraig said, his words fierce. His gaze bored into hers, then he turned away, staring at the cliffs of Ravensmuir. “I did,” he added softly.

And in her dream, Rosamunde did what she should have done on that day. She reached out. She touched Padraig’s shoulder. She saw his surprise when he turned toward her. Then she caught him close, hearing the thunder of her pulse in her own ears, and kissed him.

It was a sweet, hot kiss, a kiss that sent a torrent of longing through her. It was a kiss tinged with regret, filled with love, a kiss of yearning and potency. It left her dizzy. It left her hot.

It left Rosamunde wide awake and blinking at a ceiling she could not place.

Was she not dead?

It appeared not. She was simply alone. She touched her lips, caught her breath, and dared to wish for that second chance.

* * *

Padraig awakened abruptly, his heart racing and his breath coming in quick spurts. He was hot and he was tight, the taste of Rosamunde upon his lips.

He had also slept, apparently, in the field.

The sun was rising in the east, gilding the hills and setting the dewdrops ablaze. He stared around himself. He was alone. He was cold and his clothing was damp with dew. The stone circle was a dozen steps away, silent in its secrets. The women were gone, if indeed they had ever existed, and there was no music echoing in his ears. No lyre, no small faeries, no footsteps in the grass.

Padraig heard a man shout at a cow as he drove her along the road to town.

He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue across his lips. He tasted the kiss of Rosamunde again, closing his eyes at the rush of pleasure he’d felt beneath her touch.

Rosamunde had never kissed him.

Except in his dream.

He had indulged too much the night before. It was the ale, confounding him, feeding his desire and leading him astray.

Padraig shoved to his feet, grimacing at the distance he had to walk back to town. His feet were still sore and his head ached. He made to brush himself down, removing the twigs strewn across his clothes, and realized there was something in his hand.

It was a stone. The stone was round with a hole in the middle of it. It was the colour of gold. Was this the golden ring he believed the Faerie queen had given him?

Padraig smiled at his own foolish dream. He had been in his cups. Still, a stone of such a shape was unusual. It might be lucky. He was possessed of all of the superstitions of a seafaring man and a few more besides, courtesy of his mother’s upbringing in these hills and her respect for the fey. If nothing else, it would be an error to cast the gift aside where the donor might witness his rudeness.

Padraig pushed the stone into his pocket and strode through the damp grass. And as he walked back to his accommodations in Galway, he savored the memory of Rosamunde’s kiss.

Even in a dream, it had been a sweet prize and was enough to put a spring in his step.

* * *

“But Rosamunde, she had not died

In truth she breathed still.

She was a captive of the fey

And lost beneath the hill.

Such marvels she did see while there

Such beauty, wondrous still

Still Rosamunde did not wish to be

Captive beneath the hill.”

* * *

The spriggan Darg was not a creature Rosamunde was glad to see.

Solitude was better than the company of this thing.

That the small fairy had a red cord knotted around its waist was curious, and surely did not improve the creature’s mood. It hissed and spat, pinching her to wake her up then nipping at her heels to hurry her along.

“Make haste, make haste, the king is not inclined to wait.”

“Where are we going? I thought Faerie was like limbo.”

Darg chattered unintelligibly, as was its tendency when it was annoyed. The creature led her more deeply into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir and Rosamunde was glad to leave her past behind.

It wasn’t truly the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, though. Those caves and their pathways were well-known to Rosamunde, having been her secret passage to the keep for decades. As a child, she had played in them, learning their labyrinth, delighting in their secret corners. But they were dank and made of grey stone, dark and filled with the distant tinkle of running water.

She did not know the passageways that Darg followed. Rosamunde had never spied that entry lit with golden light until the collapse of the cavern and the death of Tynan. She suspected that Darg had opened a portal for her, but knew not where it truly was.

This cavern could not be fairly called a cave or even a labyrinth. Indeed, Rosamunde did not feel as if she was underground at all. There was brilliant golden sunlight, the light that had spilled from that unexpected portal. The sky arched high, clear and blue, over verdant fields. The air was filled with music and fine singing, and every soul she saw was beautiful.

It took Rosamunde a while to realize that she only saw nobility. There were aristocrats riding and hunting, borne by finely draped steeds so majestic in stature that the beasts rivaled the famed destriers of Ravensmuir. The women were dressed in silk and samite, their garb of every hue, their long hair flowing over their shoulders or braided into plaits. They wore coronets of flowers, and gems were plentiful on their clothing, even wound into their hair. Many played instruments as they rode. Golden flutes and silver lyres abounded in this strange country. The womens’ laughter sounded like music as well.

The men were just as well wrought, tall and slim, muscular. There was a glint of mischief in every eye. Their armor shone as if it was made of silver, their banners were beautifully embroidered and their steeds galloped with proudly arched necks. Silver bells hung from every bridle.

The land itself was bountiful, the trees lush with fruit and flowers blooming on every side. Rosamunde thought she saw fruit of gold and silver, and flowers wrought of precious jewels, but Darg did not delay their passage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautifully with the ladies’ tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.

Just passing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg’s killing pace, lightened Rosamunde’s heart. It healed her wounds and made her believe that she might live on, even without love. It made her think of the future with an optimism that she had believed lost.

It made her wonder where Padraig was.

It made her wonder how she might get from here to there.

“Where are we?” she shouted to Darg, who hastened ahead of her, muttering all the while.

“A foolish mortal you must be, to not know the land of Faerie.”

Faerie. Rosamunde was a pragmatic woman, one who had never believed in matters unseen or places to which she could not navigate. Was she dreaming?

A butterfly lit on her shoulder, its wings fairly dripping with color, its beauty far beyond that of any earthly insect.

Rosamunde realized with a start that it was a tiny winged woman. The fairy laughed at her surprise, a sound like tinkling bells, then darted away, disappearing into the blue of the sky with a glimmer.

“And why do we not linger in this magical realm?” Rosamunde asked Darg.

“Late we are, late we must not be! Finvarra waits impatiently.” The spriggan tugged again at the red cord knotted around its waist. It spat in the grass with displeasure, then snatched at Rosamunde. “Hasten, hasten, by the moon’s rise, we must be safely at his side.”

“Who is Finvarra? And why do we go to him?”

“Questions, questions, instead of haste! Your queries do the daylight waste! We have far to go without rest: Finvarra will accept no less.”

They crossed a bridge, the river running beneath looked to be made of mead. Rosamunde caught a whiff of its honeyed sweetness and saw a cluster of bees hovering at the shore. A beautifully-dressed suitor offered a golden chalice of the liquid to his lady, who flushed, fluttered both wings and lashes, then accepted his tribute.

“But why do we go to this Finvarra? Who is he and what hold has he over you?”

Darg spun abruptly, facing Rosamunde with fury in its eyes. “A match I lost, the price my life. His demand was you as his new wife. High King of Faerie is his task, a man whose patience does not last.” Darg wrestled with the red cord, then released it with disgust. “This bond he knots, it burns me true; ’til you are his, this pain my due.”

“You traded me to the Faerie King?” Rosamunde demanded, bracing her hands upon her hips. “What if I have no desire to be his toy? Or that of any other man, for that matter? I will not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised.”

“I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra will have you as his wife!”

“I think not.” Rosamunde turned her back on her vile captor, having no inclination to make such a submission easier. She surveyed the beautiful countryside and spied a man tending a pair of horses that were drinking mead on the bank. He was handsome, and his gaze was bright upon her.

His hair was as dark as midnight, and if she narrowed her eyes, he could have been mistaken for Padraig.

Save that Padraig had neither wings nor pointed ears.

Perhaps he could aid her in finding Padraig.

When the Faerie knight smiled, Rosamunde found herself smiling in return. “I will take my heart’s ease here instead,” she said to Darg and turned her back upon the creature.

“No!” Darg screamed, as once the spriggan had screamed before in Rosamunde’s presence. She glanced back warily, then ran when she saw the spriggan had become a large and menacing black cloud. When enraged it could change shape with frightening speed—the last such eruption had led to Tynan’s death by shattering the caverns.

“I saved your life, it’s mine to give,” the spriggan shouted. “I trade it now so I shall live!”

Rosamunde ran as quickly as she could, feeling the other faeries watching her with bemusement. She could not outrun Darg’s fury, however. Her heart sank as the dark cloud enveloped her, surrounding her with fog as black as night.

Then she was snatched from the ground, as helpless as a butterfly caught in a tempest, and carried away. She thought she heard someone cry out, but Darg did not slow down.

Finvarra’s wife. King or not, Rosamunde had no interest in his attentions. The very fact that he would trade a faerie’s life for a woman, with no consideration of any desire beyond his own, was no good endorsement. She struggled and fought, knowing it was futile, and she wished again for a loyal friend to fight at her back.

Padraig. How could she have been so blind?

* * *

Padraig fondled the strange stone in his pocket as he returned to the tavern that night. It was falling dark, the sun blazing orange just before it slipped beneath the horizon.

He could not dispel his dream of kissing Rosamunde, and in truth, he did not want to do so. The dream had lifted the shadow from his heart, made him feel that there might be some purpose to his life even without his partner by his side.

“You are fair pleased with yourself tonight,” his sister said as she set an ale before him. She smiled and propped her hands on her hips to regard him. “A conquest was it then?”

Padraig laughed for the first time in a long time. “Naught but a dream, but ’twas a fine one.”

“I wager it must have been,” she said, her smile teasing. “You dreamed then of a lady?”

“None other than the Faerie queen,” Padraig agreed amiably. “And she gave to me a token.”

His sister sobered. “Did she then?” Her wariness reminded Padraig strongly of their mother.

“A ring with the power to make a man invisible to others.” Padraig chuckled at the whimsy of it all, then reached into his pocket to show her the stone. He thought she would be amused by the evidence of his drunken dream, but when he pulled the gift from his pocket, it had become a golden ring again.

Padraig stared at it on his palm and blinked in wonder. “But a moment ago, it was a stone,” he whispered.

His sister caught her breath and took a step back. “A Faerie gem.” She crossed herself quickly. “Mind your step, Padraig. A man does not easily elude the favor of the Faerie queen.”

Padraig barely heard her warning. He knew all the tales of the fey, courtesy of his mother. He simply could not believe that the ring had changed twice.

But then, if it was fey, the charm upon it would hold for the night and not the day. He stood and, leaving his ale, looked out the door of the tavern. Sure enough, the sun had set completely and twilight, that time so potent for the fey, had fallen.

He gazed at the circle of gold. What if his dream had been true? What if this ring truly did have the power Una had stated? What if he could reclaim Rosamunde from the realm of the fey?

What if his dream of that kiss had answered his question – what was Rosamunde’s honest desire? Did she wish for him as well as freedom?

But before he dared entering the Faerie mound, before he dared to abduct a women destined for the High King of Faerie’s bed, Padraig would be sure of the ring’s powers.

He left a coin for the ale, having no taste for it any longer. He strode out into the streets of Galway, slipped down an alleyway, then donned the ring.

To his astonishment, when he stepped back into the crowded thoroughfare, a man walked right into him, frowning at the obstacle he could feel but not see.

Padraig spent an hour testing the ring’s abilities, but it was clear that no human eye could discern his presence.

Next he would check it among the fey. He borrowed a horse and rode like a madman to the stone circle where he had heard Una sing the night before.

* * *

“Thus Rosamunde’s lover true

Did meet the Faerie queen.

Thus he gained the magical ring

That let him pass unseen.

And so it was that he did choose

To witness his lady’s plight.

He held his breath and donned the ring

At the Faerie sid that night.”

“He saw his lady Rosamunde

All garbed in white and gold.

Her hair was braided thick with jewels,

A star was on her brow.

Her girdle was of finest silk,

Her shoes of purple leather.

So radiant was her countenance

He’d never seen her measure.”

* * *

Rosamunde was displeased.

To be sure, the court was fine enough, and the hospitality was generous. She had been assigned some two dozen ladies in waiting who cared more for the careful plaiting of her hair than she ever could have done. She liked the splendid fabrics, the jewels and the evident wealth.

She did not like that she had been unable to escape Darg, much less the creature’s hoot of triumph when Finvarra had removed the red cord. The spriggan had disappeared so quickly that it might not have ever been.

She did not miss the vile creature.

Finvarra was a handsome man, confident in his appeal. His eyes were strange, or at least they did not seem to match his countenance. He looked to have seen no more than thirty summers, his body young and strong, his face unlined and handsome. But his eyes, his eyes were filled with the shadows of experience. There was the memory of sadness there, of joy, of triumph and defeat. Had it been her choice to meet him, had she met him when both were unencumbered, Rosamunde might have been intrigued by the Faerie King.

As it was, she saw that his fascination with her was no more than lust. She would be a conquest, a mistress, a frippery to be tossed aside when he became bored with her charms.

Rosamunde had never been so little and had no desire to be as much now.

Indeed, his interest reminded her of Tynan’s supposed love, and she would spurn it as she had failed to spurn it previously. If nothing else, Rosamunde would learn from her error.

Then there was the matter of Finvarra’s wife, Una, who had retreated to the far side of the hall. Una, no small beauty in herself, had gathered her ladies about her and they clustered there, whispering and pointing.

Finvarra ignored his wife so deliberately that Rosamunde guessed she was but a pawn in some ongoing match between king and wife.

It was far less than what she wanted of her life.

She had tried to escape, without success. These maidens purportedly assigned to ensure her pleasure were also charged with keeping her captive. Their hearing was sharp, their sight sharper, their vigil complete.

Rosamunde folded her arms across her chest, smiled thinly and refused to participate in the festivities. If Finvarra’s interest waned, perhaps she would be cast out of the realm sooner.

It seemed an unlikely prospect, given the gleam in his eye when he glanced her way, but Rosamunde had precious few options.

She disliked this role of a woman pampered. She disliked having no choice over her direction, having no ability to shape her own fate. It was utterly at odds with the way she had led her life, and Rosamunde fairly itched to return to what she knew.

First, somehow, she had to escape this court.

The music was intoxicating, so loud and sweet and melodious. The fey danced with a vigor that was astounding, seeming never to tire. The bounty of food on display was enticing, all manner of sweets and confections offered for the pleasure of the company. The mead smelled wonderful indeed, but Rosamunde feared the loss of her wits should she drink it. She simply stood and watched, and the hours drew long.

It was hours later when the faeries began a vivacious dance. It was clear that Rosamunde’s maidens were captivated by the music, their eyes dancing and their toes tapping. Rosamunde encouraged them, one after the other to take the floor, until finally she felt unobserved.

It would not last, but she would savor the interval.

No sooner was she alone than a man’s hands closed over her shoulders. He stood close behind her, whoever he was, his breath in her hair and his chest at her back. Rosamunde jumped, then felt her eyes widen at a familiar murmur.

“At your back, as always,” Padraig said, the feel of his breath on her neck making her tingle. “Say nothing, but listen.”

Rosamunde felt her heart skip and feared her maidens would hear its tumult. She tried to quiet her response, but she felt the strength of Padraig’s fingers on her shoulders, the warmth of him against her back. She glanced down but could not see his hands.

“An enchantment,” he murmured and she heard the familiar humor touch his tone. “I know not how long ’twill last.”

Rosamunde’s mouth went dry. She didn’t doubt that Padraig would be at risk, if they realized there was an intruder in their midst. She scanned the hall, endeavoring to be casual in the survey, and realized that none could see Padraig. None even guessed his presence.

Then Rosamunde felt Una’s gaze land upon her and saw the woman smile slightly.

Could Una see him?

Or was she simply gladdened that Rosamunde did not enjoy the celebrations?

“I do not know how much you know,” Padraig said in quick whisper. “You are in the sid of the High King of the Faeries, Finvarra, and he means to make you his mistress.”

Rosamunde nodded ever so slightly.

“Choose, Rosamunde, choose whether you would remain in this place or whether you would have me aid your escape.” Padraig’s voice dropped low and his grip tightened slightly. “I am not without my own expectation, you should be warned. I should have confessed my love for you years ago. I would love you. I would be with you. I would endeavor to make you happy.”

Indeed, the man could not fail at that task. Rosamunde closed her eyes, overcome with joy at his words.

“My right hand if you would stay here,” he murmured. “My left, if you would be mine.”

Without hesitation, Rosamunde raised her hand, as if to straighten her hair, and brushed her fingertips across Padraig’s left hand. She felt him catch his breath.

Una’s smile broadened, turning smug, then she plucked a sweet from a proffered tray. The Faerie queen’s eyes gleamed and Rosamunde feared her deception.

“Eat nothing,” Padraig warned. “Drink nothing. If you consume so much as one morsel, you will be captive here forever.”

Rosamunde touched his fingertips to indicate her understanding. She was fiercely glad that she had not taken a bite since her arrival.

“Tomorrow night, the fey will ride out in procession for Beltane. You must go with the company. You must ride as close to the perimeter of the group as you can. I will come for you.”

And Rosamunde would somehow learn the terms of release before then. She did not doubt that Padraig would face a challenge in gaining her freedom.

Rosamunde felt the burn of his lips against her nape. She closed her eyes, wanting to turn into his embrace, her chest tight with the gift of his presence.

Then Padraig was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.

And there was only the glitter of Una’s knowing gaze locked upon her.

What treachery had the Faerie queen planned?

* * *

“And so the pair did plot their scheme;

So did they plan to keep their dream.

But the ring’s charm did not hide all:

Una saw the mortal in her hall.

The Faerie queen had no good intent;

Loyalty to her spouse had been spent.

None could have joy while she did not;

And so Una schemed her own plot.

Padraig might capture his love lost,

But Una ensured too high a cost.”

* * *

It was Beltane, and Padraig was enough of his mother’s son to know that anything was possible on this night of nights.

On this night and on Samhain, the fey were at their most potent.

He made his preparations, fully aware of that.

He bought the horse that he had borrowed and the ostler was pleased to be rid of the beast, given that it had gone missing the night before. Padraig had the steed for a better price than he might have otherwise. He prepared it with care, ensuring that there was no iron in its harness, less the fey realize it was not one of theirs.

It was a fine stallion, a high-stepping black horse with a proud gait. Its mane was long and dark, its eyes lit with a fire that made him wonder whether it knew more of the fey than he. It was said that the Faeries bred the best horses, and there was majesty in this one’s lineage.

It had not even shied at the sid, but waited calmly for him at the hawthorne tree.

He declared his intent to sail with the morning tide, and had his ship provisioned for the journey. His sister extended her hospitality again, but Padraig knew they were too different for him to remain in their home. Her husband was not so unhappy to see a reputed pirate leave. Padraig cleared space in the hold of the ship to create a stable for the horse, for he had no inclination to simply leave it behind.

He tried to sleep, that he might be at his best when night fell. When the darkness slipped over the land, when the Beltane fires were lit in the hills, Padraig walked his horse to the old Norman gate. His heart in his mouth, he mounted and rode out into the night, slipping the ring onto his finger when he left the road.

* * *

“His steed was proud, as black as night

He donned the ring, was lost to sight.

The steed ran on, proud and bold,

His hooves thundered on the road.

The lover knew he faced his test;

Without his lady, he’d know no rest.

Lit by the fires on ev’ry hill,

The heat of his ardor knew no chill.

Padraig rode for his lady heart,

Would the fey queen keep them apart?”

* * *

Padraig reached the stone circle, but found only silence within it. The wind was still, the ground dark. He feared he had come too late, that the host had already ridden out—or that perhaps they had guessed his intent and chosen to forgo tradition to keep the prize of Rosamunde.

There was much he would forgo to keep her by his side.

Then the wind rustled in the branches of the hawthorne that grew to one side of the stone circle. His stallion snorted and tossed his head, then Padraig heard the clarion call of a distant trumpet.

The single note was clear, as clear as a mountain stream, as lovely as a summer morning. The sound melted his heart, dissolved his inhibitions, filled his veins with starlight and resolve.

The earth in the middle of the mound cracked; it gaped wide. A portal opened in the ground, one wide enough for four horses to ride abreast. Padraig glimpsed the hall beneath that he had visited the night before and his grip tightened on the reins.

Golden light spilled from the hidden court into the night’s darkness and the Faerie host rode forth. Music accompanied them, the tinkle of ten thousand silver bells mounted on a thousand harnesses. Their steeds pranced with pride, confident of their splendor and beauty. The Beltane fires on the adjacent hills burned higher as if in tribute, their flames stretching to the stars.

And the fey laughed.

Padraig stared in awe at their magnificent display.

* * *

“Then lo, he saw the Faerie host,

Their company more beautiful than most.

He saw the silver and the gold;

He saw the Faerie knights so bold;

He saw the maidens garbed so fine;

He heard the music, saw the wine.

The will ’o wisp danced on the hill

Fey light glimmering and never still

The stars seemed to have come to earth

As the Faerie host rode in mirth.

And so it was he glimpsed his lady,

On the left of the King of Faerie.”

* * *

There were horses in the company without riders, or perhaps their riders were too small to be seen. Padraig would have eased his steed to join the company, but the beast seemed to know his expectation—it marched alongside, as if it had done as much a dozen times before.

The Faerie host flowed over the hills, eased down to the valley and ascended the next hill. Small Faeries darted toward the occasional cottage, claiming whatever gifts had been left for them. They shared the milk and ale with their fellows, lapped the porridge and cast gold coins in their wake. Each Beltane fire they passed snapped and crackled in acknowledgement of their passage, and Finvarra laughed at the sight. His wife, riding on his right, smiled but there was no joy in her eyes.

Neither was there joy in the steady gaze of Rosamunde.

Padraig eased his horse closer to the royalty, stroking its neck to encourage it to pass between the other beasts. The stallion needed little encouragement, and Padraig considered the possibility that horses felt a natural attraction to the Faerie King.

Just as the Beltane flames acknowledged his presence.

Padraig did not know how long they rode, nor how far. He thought solely of getting closer to Rosamunde without attracting attention, and he made consistent progress in that goal. They crossed a vale and ascended another hill. When they reached the top, the shining dark water of Lough Carrib was visible, gleaming at the foot of the hills. There were more stars on this night than he had ever seen and the moon rose high in pearly splendor.

When they began to descend the hill, Padraig’s horse eased so close that he could touch the hem of Rosamunde’s dress.

It was time.

* * *

“He spurred his horse, he galloped near

He seized the lady he loved so dear.

He stole her from the Faerie host

Claimed she Finvarra desired most.

The fey did scream, the horse did run,

Finvarra shouted ‘twould not be done.

‘Hold fast, hold fast,’ Rosamunde cried

‘For she would steal you from my side.’

And so he held with all his might

Even as Una unleashed her spite.”

* * *

The company jostled for position as they began the descent. The fey were celebratory, and less disciplined than when they had first left the hill. Their laughter was louder and their songs more merry.

Padraig lunged through the company with purpose. He dug his heels into the stallion’s side, and the horse leapt with power. Padraig snatched Rosamunde from her steed, his arm locked around her waist, and placed her on the saddle before him.

Then he fled.

As the stallion raced down the hill, the golden ring upon Padraig’s finger cracked in half. It fell from his hand and was trampled beneath the horses’ hooves, leaving him revealed to the fey.

“Impostor!” they cried. “Thief!”

“Fetch my mistress!” bellowed Finvarra.

Padraig gave the horse his heels. The steed raced down the hill ahead of the Faerie host, running so quickly that the ground was a blur beneath their feet.

“Faster,” Rosamunde urged, glancing back. “Faster!”

Padraig heard Una’s song rise sweetly in the distance, but did not trust her ode.

“Padraig!” Rosamunde said, locking her arms around his neck. “She means to make you spurn me. Be not deceived.”

Padraig guessed the test he would face a heartbeat before it began.

* * *

“‘They will turn me to an ancient crone

A woman wrought of sinew and bone.

A cold, rotted body from the grave

Hold fast, my love, you must be brave.’”

* * *

In his embrace, Rosamunde turned to a hag, appearing to have endured a thousand years of hardship. Her skin was wrinkled like ancient leather, her eyes yellow and her teeth missing.

She cackled at him, this apparition, and looked fit to devour him. Padraig could see the bones of her skull beneath the loose flesh of her face, he could smell the fetid stench of decay, and he felt the clutch of her skeletal fingers on his neck. Everything within him was repulsed and his urge was to cast her aside with all speed.

Padraig told himself it was but a spell and held fast.

* * *

“‘Next I’ll be a writhing snake

With a toxic bite your life to take.

I will be as slipp’ry as an adder

My release lies solely in your power.’”

* * *

Rosamunde changed then to an enormous snake, green and slippery in Padraig’s grasp. The snake bared its fangs and malice lit its eyes as it reared back to strike. He had not doubt its bite was poisonous, but he did not release it.

There were, after all, no snakes in Ireland. Padraig knew that this, too, was but a fey trick.

He heard Una’s song, realized it was growing in volume, and knew there would be worse to come. Three tests there would be, he guessed as much, and they would become more fierce. He held fast to the writhing green snake and hoped he could keep hold of Rosamunde. The horse ran, outdistancing the shouting host at its heels.

The snake twisted in his grip, as elusive as a fish, but Padraig held tightly. He reminded himself of Rosamunde’s valor, how she had challenged more than one aristocrat in the wrong, like the cheating bishop he had once served, and that gave him the strength to persevere in his challenge to the fey.

The water of the lake drew ever more near and he wondered what the horse would do. He thought to direct it around the body of water, then Rosamunde changed shape again.

* * *

“‘And last I will become a flame,

As hot and fierce as ever came.

A Beltane fire, orange and hot

My love, my love, release me not.’”

* * *

In the blink of an eye, Rosamunde became a fire in his embrace. The brilliant light of the flames nearly blinded Padraig and surprise almost loosened his grip.

He cried out and tightened his grasp upon her. The fire burned his skin, the flames licking at his flesh. He closed his eyes to the sight of his own body burning, to the smell of his destruction. He held fast to the column of flame, even as he feared he could not have the strength to endure against the fey.

Padraig thought of the way Rosamunde’s hair looked in the sunlight.

He recalled her bold stance on the ship as they sailed to adventure. He thought of the light in her eyes when first they had met. He thought of her determination, even when the spriggan Darg had stolen her charts and trapped the ship in a calm.

He recalled her pride in her nieces and her joy in seeing them well wed. He thought of her passion and her pride and he fortified himself with the truth of why he loved this woman with all his heart. Padraig squeezed his eyes shut as the pain built to a crescendo.

He could not lose his love.

He recited the Paternoster, on impulse, recalling his mother’s counsel. Tears stung his cheeks as he said the familiar prayer. Our father…

The horse halted abruptly, reared, then it ducked its head. Padraig was thrown over its neck and gasped aloud when he landed in the lake with a splash.

He sank low, still holding fast to Rosamunde, and the cold dark water of the lake embraced him. He felt the flame in his embrace turn to a woman again.

A naked woman.

A naked woman he loved more than life itself.

And Padraig knew he had triumphed. They broke the surface together, Rosamunde’s smile enough to light Padraig’s nights forevermore.

When they might have spoken each to the other, a man cleared his throat at close proximity.

Finvarra stood on the shore, holding the bridle of the stamping black stallion. “And so the contest goes to you,” the High King of the Faerie said. He stroked the horse’s nose with affection and the beast nuzzled him. Finvarra smiled and his eyes glinted. “I shall take this horse into my care, seeing as it was once stolen from us and is rightfully returned.”

Padraig understood why the horse had not been startled by the fey, why it had been so at ease joining the host. Recognition was possibly why it had been allowed to join the company in the first place.

He understood then why it had thrown him and saved Rosamunde. Padraig fancied that the horse had intended to reward him for bringing it back to Finvarra.

“You are a man of more cunning than most.” Finvarra smiled. “I should have liked to have played chess with you.”

“With respect, my lord, I have little to my name and nothing I would choose to lose.” Padraig kept his arm around Rosamunde, noting how the king’s gaze flicked between the two of them.

“Should his devotion falter,” Finvarra said to Rosamunde. “You are always welcome at my court.”

“I thank you, my lord, and thank you also for your hospitality,” Rosamunde said with a bow.

“You and your fellows will always find welcome at our home,” Padraig added with a bow of his own.

Finvarra smiled, his gaze trailing to his wife, who remained upon her steed and at a distance. “It is no crime to covet a beauteous gem,” he said softly, “but a rare triumph to possess one. I salute you, Padraig Deane. May your love never be tarnished.”

With that Finvarra turned and led the prancing horse back to the company. Padraig felt the chill of the night air on his wet skin as he stood with Rosamunde fast at his side, but he could not tear his gaze away from the departing company. He doubted he would ever see them again. They rode forth, passing over the hills like a vision, leaving only the echo of their silvery laughter behind.

And Rosamunde.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him.

“You are welcome. I am glad to see you hale again.” Padraig stared down at her, knowing his desire but afraid to speak of it too soon.

Rosamunde, as was typical of her, showed no such restraint. She twined her arms around his neck, sliding her fingers into his hair. “I am sorry, Padraig, that I erred so badly. I love you, I think I have always loved you, but I wish I had seen the truth of it sooner.”

Padraig bent to touch his lips to hers, his heart swelling that his dream should be his own. “I know that I have always loved you,” he murmured against her mouth.

Rosamunde laughed. “Then I shall have to spend the rest of our lives atoning for my error.”

“I do not think it will be so onerous.”

“Nor do I!”

Padraig laughed at the prospect, then he sobered. Rosamunde’s eyes were richest green, filled with a conviction that stole his breath away. “Marry me, Rosamunde. Marry me and seal our bond for all to see. I have little to offer you but myself.”

“Your ship.”

“Your ship, and the contents yours as well. I have only myself.”

“And it is more than enough. I will wed you, Padraig, and I will honor your love every day and night of my life.

It was everything he had ever wanted, and yet more.

Rosamunde’s kiss sent a welcome heat through Padraig, a heat that her presence would never fail to kindle. Padraig knew that whatever he had suffered had been worthwhile, for he had gained his heart’s desire.

When he lifted his head, her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed. She glanced about herself and shivered. “Tell me, though, that we can sail to warmer climes.”

“I thought Sicily,” Padraig said, smiling as pleasure lit her expression. “With the morning tide. All is prepared.”

Rosamunde laughed. “A man of confidence, and one in pursuit of my own heart.”

“I thought I possessed that prize already,” he teased, loving the sound of her answering laughter.

“You do, you do.” Then Rosamunde raised a hand to his cheek, as solemn as he had ever seen her. Her voice dropped to a fervent whisper. “Oh, Padraig, never doubt that I am yours.” A tear glistened in her eye, a tear that he knew was rare for this bold woman. “I may have been late to see the truth, but I shall never forget it now.”

“I shall never let you forget it,” he retorted, then winked. Rosamunde smiled and he swung her into his arms, then strode from the lake. He had an idea of how they might warm themselves before the walk back to town.

One glance at his lady told him that their thoughts were as one. Yet again, they would challenge convention. Yet again they would follow their hearts. But from this day forth, they would do so together.

It was as close to heaven as Padraig Deane ever expected to be.

“Padraig gained his lady’s heart,

She vowed they’d never be apart.

Rosamunde was a pirate queen

With hair red gold and eyes of green.

Her lover true did hold her fast,

Showed all the fey his love would last.

They ne’er forgot those of Faerie,

And lived out their days most happily.”

* * * * * * * * *

The story of the Kinfairlie family continues with

The Renegade’s Heart,

Book #1 of Claire’s new True Love Brides series.

Read on for an excerpt!

The Renegade’s Heart

Released from the captivity of the Fae, Murdoch Seton wants nothing more than to forget his lost years. Undertaking a quest to recover treasure stolen from his family seems the perfect solution—but Murdoch is not counting upon a curious maiden who holds both the secret to the theft and his sole redemption.

Isabella is outraged to find her brother’s keep besieged by a renegade knight—especially one who is too handsome for his own good or hers. After a single encounter, she becomes convinced that his cause is just and decides to unveil the true thief, never imagining that their single shared kiss has launched a battle for Murdoch’s very soul.

As the treacherous Fae move to claim Murdoch forever, Isabella seeks to heal the knight who has stolen her heart. But will Murdoch allow her to take a risk and endanger herself? Or will he sacrifice himself to ensure Isabella’s future?

When the moon was in its first quarter of the new year, a strange wind came rattling through Kinfairlie’s hall. That wind bore down on Kinfairlie with astonishing force and cold, slipping through the chinks in the mortar, scattering spices and making the water swirl in the buckets. Darkness came earlier from that day hence, and the nights were filled with threat and ominous whispers.

There was not a soul who did not curse the change, or the relentless buffet of that wind. It seemed impossible to evade its frosty fingers, or to ever get fully warm. Lanterns were snuffed and candles blown out by its gusts. Fires were nearly impossible to start, with that wind gusting across hearth and brazier, and tempers became short.

Usually the coldest winds came from the sea, bearing dampness and often snow. This wind was fierce and unfamiliar. It blew from the north, ferocious and icy. Yet at the same time, the butter turned rancid and the meat spoiled in the larder, despite the cold temperatures. There were those who said it was a punishment, a retribution for sin, or even for the comparative ease of the winter so far.

Isabella did not believe a word of that. Since the winter had been mild before this change, she had been immersed in her studies of the healing plants, under the tutelage of her brother’s wife, Eleanor. Ever since Isabella had tried to play a jest upon her brother Alexander during his courtship of Eleanor and that jest had gone awry, she had been determined to learn the healer’s craft so she could not so err again. Eleanor had been only too glad to have an apprentice and Isabella was an avid student these past three years. It suited her well to be able to make a difference in the lives of those around her.

This wind made labor for Isabella, as many in Kinfairlie fell ill with a persistent cough, one that began the first night of the wind’s arrival and would not abate. As well, Eleanor herself fell ill, leaving more to Isabella. Eleanor was at the beginning of her second pregnancy, though it was only with arrival of the wind that she became unable to eat. Isabella worked long, fearing that Eleanor might lose her child.

It was on the third morning of the wind’s wailing that Isabella strode into the chamber she shared with her two unwed sisters. As Isabella entered, her youngest sister Elizabeth looked up from her book. Isabella saw that it was the ledger from the kitchens. “Are you doing the inventory for Eleanor?”

“Spices on this day. She keeps a rigorous schedule in her inventories and I would ensure that she has no need to rise from bed.” Elizabeth’s expression turned hopeful. “Is she better?”

“She grows impatient with time spent abed and tells me this is a good portent for a patient’s recovery.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“That and complaints about the fare,” Isabella added and Elizabeth laughed. “I must go to the village to check on those with the cough, then concoct another posset for Eleanor.”

Elizabeth watched Isabella. “You enjoy this labor.”

“I do.” Isabella paused at an unfamiliar note in her sister’s tone. “Does that trouble you?”

Elizabeth frowned. “I am happy for you, of course. You have found a task that you love and your passion for it is clear. Even Annelise seems to be in her element, caring for Roland each day.” She made a face, but Isabella knew Elizabeth did not resent either their other sister or Eleanor and Roland’s son.

“So what is amiss?” she prompted.

Elizabeth sighed again. “I have no similar passion. Indeed, my yearnings are for things I doubt I shall ever have.”

“Like what?” Isabella sat down beside her sister.

“I yearn for adventure. Love. Bold deeds.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “A knight to capture me and claim me as his own. He should be valiant and handsome, and undefeated in battle.”

“As well as wealthy and landed,” Isabella teased.

“Of course!”

“You want to live in a tale.”

“And what is so wrong with that? More than two years have passed since our brother saw Madeline and Vivienne wedded, then took a bride himself. Two sisters and a brother wedded in a year! Did you not think we would be married by now?” Elizabeth flung out her hands. “We shall die ancient and withered in this keep!”

Isabella laughed and rose to fasten her cloak. “I believe there is yet time.”

“Are you not impatient?”

“Alexander vowed we would wed at our own choice. I am content to bide my time in choosing, that I might choose well.”

“Since when is patience one of your virtues?” Elizabeth teased.

Isabella turned away, pretending to seek some trinket. She had seen much of the matters of women in assisting Eleanor. She had been present when the life of Ceara, the wife of the miller’s son, had hung in the balance in the delivery of their first child. And Isabella was resolved that if she were to take such a risk for a man, she would have to love him with her heart and soul.

As Eleanor loved Alexander, and as Ceara loved Matthew.

“And who shall you choose?” Elizabeth continued. “There is never a man of interest to come to this keep and Alexander will not take us to even the earl’s court.” Elizabeth lifted the ledger. “We had best be about our labors. At least you look forward to yours.”

Isabella had not managed a reply when the sound of hoof beats carried through the window.

“Destriers!” Elizabeth said. She raced past Isabella and flung open the shutter, admitting the chill of the morning. “Knights!” she breathed in awe. She grinned at Isabella and lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling with new merriment. “Husbands!”

“You think of only one thing!” Isabella teased.

“Alexander must have summoned them. Or they come to beg his favor. I must be in the hall to greet them!” Elizabeth hastened out of the chamber, her footsteps pounding on the stairs as she descended to the great hall.

Isabella, always cursed by curiosity, went to the window to look.

Two horses galloped along the road to Kinfairlie’s gates, their manes and tails flying in the wind. They were magnificent steeds, so large and muscled that Isabella knew them to be destriers. Elizabeth had doubtless been right about knights, for the warhorses were richly caparisoned. Isabella saw the gleam of sunlight on armor.

The lead horse was so pale a silver as to be nearly white. Its mane and tale were as dark as pewter. Its trappings were deep blue, and the tabard of the knight riding it was of that same deep blue. He wore chain mail and a long full cape as dark as midnight flowed from his shoulders. As he drew nearer, Isabella saw that his tabard bore no insignia. His hair was black and long enough to curl over his ears.

The second horse was a chestnut with a white star on its brow and white socks. It was no less handsome than the first. The man riding it was older and garbed in the plaid favored by the highlanders. He wore a leather jerkin and a white shirt, and his hair was both short and grey. A seasoned warrior, Isabella sensed that he was aware of all that surrounded them, but kept his expression impassive.

Her gaze returned to the younger man.

They galloped directly to the gates, the horses stamping and snorting when they were compelled to halt before the gatekeeper. Their breath sent plumes of white into the air.

“I am Murdoch Seton,” cried the man with the dark hair. He was handsome enough to make Elizabeth’s heart flutter, Isabella was certain of it. His voice was so rich and deep, his confidence so beguiling that Isabella herself thought to shiver. His manner was audacious, which snared Isabella’s interest. “I am come to deliver a message to the Laird of Kinfairlie.”

The gatekeeper, a doughty man who seldom smiled, barred the entry with his spear. Isabella heard the rumble of his voice but could not discern his words.

The pale horse pranced in impatience. “My brother’s request will not be surrendered to the gatekeeper and forgotten,” Murdoch Seton said, a surprising hostility in his tone. “I will speak to the laird and tell him of it myself.” His gaze danced over the tower and Isabella withdrew slightly, fearing that he would spot her.

There was something about him that held her gaze, though, a vitality that was uncommon among men.

“I will send word to my laird and you will wait.”

“I will not be deterred from this mission,” the knight said with a determination that was surprising. “I have but a message to deliver, and no man of integrity would turn such a missive aside.”

“But...” It was clear to Isabella that the gatekeeper did not trust this Murdoch Seton.

Why? Did he know of him? Or did he simply dislike the man’s imperious manner? Isabella drew back the shutter a little more. It seemed almost that the knight expected to be refused or turned aside. Why?

“I see you do not send word and perhaps you do not mean to,” the knight said with impatience. “I will take word of my arrival to the laird myself.”

The gatekeeper obviously protested, but this Murdoch Seton dismounted, casting the reins of his steed to his partner. He made to push past the gatekeeper’s spear, and Isabella saw that he was both tall and muscular. There must have been purpose in his gaze, for the gatekeeper took a step back. He kept the spear lowered, though.

“You will not enter this hall armed!” he declared.

Murdoch cast a wry smile at his companion, then unbuckled his belt and scabbard. Instead of surrendering it to the gatekeeper, he handed it to his companion, then stepped close to the gatekeeper.

Isabella leaned out the window to hear his words.

“I leave both steed and sword in the custody of my companion. Should he be divested of them in my absence, or should he not be here when I return, I shall take word to the king of the treachery that has claimed Kinfairlie.” Then he pushed aside the spear with a gloved fingertip and marched toward the portal.

Isabella’s mouth dropped open. He threatened the gatekeeper? But he was the one who sought admission. Why was he so resolved?

The gatekeeper turned and looked after the knight, his astonishment clear. The older man, the companion of the knight, appeared to be amused.

Why did the knight assume his message would be refused?

Isabella had to know.

She spun and ran for the door, thinking she would listen in the great hall as the knight made his argument. She flung open the door, but there was no sign of Elizabeth. Isabella had no sooner concluded that her sister must have descended to the great hall when she heard boots on the stairs, approaching quickly. It sounded as if a man took the stairs two or even three at a time. She might have retreated but the dark–haired knight crested the top of the stairs.

He slowed his pace to consider her. His eyes, Isabella could now see, were a clear and deep blue and he was ruggedly handsome. Even though she was tall, he was taller. He strode toward her with such care that she thought of a wolf hunting its prey. His gaze was unswerving and a crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

Isabella felt hot, right to her toes.

“The maiden from the window,” he murmured and the appreciation in his low voice made Isabella flush. “Yet more curious than I imagined.”

“While you, sir, are more bold than might be expected.”

He smiled outright then, the expression softening his features in a most attractive way. Isabella could not avert her gaze. Indeed, it seemed she could not breathe.

“Sir!” Anthony shouted from lower on the stairs. “Sir, I must insist upon speaking first to the laird of your presence.” The old castellan could be heard huffing as he climbed the stairs behind the new arrival.

Isabella would not be daunted by this knight. She straightened, aware that Anthony would hear whatsoever she said. “I understand that you are Murdoch Seton,” she said crisply. “I, for one, would not keep you from delivering your missive. It must be of great import for you to be so concerned of your reception.”

“And so it is,” he acknowledged, his eyes glinting.

Was he mocking her? Flirting with her? Isabella did not know, but his manner flustered her in a most unwelcome way.

“Then I shall not delay you further.” She made to step past this rogue, but he touched a fingertip to her elbow. The weight of his finger stopped her. She glanced up at him, and was snared by the intensity of his gaze.

Had she ever seen eyes of such a vivid blue?

“Perhaps the lady’s smile would be worth a delay.” he said, his voice as soft as silken velvet.

“Perhaps a guest should not be so rude as to make demands before he is welcomed,” she retorted.

“In normal circumstance, I would agree,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. His fingertip slid toward her wrist in a most deliberate and shocking way. Isabella stared at it, surprised by the shivers than raced over her flesh, emanating from that point. “Has the lady a name?”

“Of course,” Isabella said. “But I understand the guest has a quest.” She stepped away, just as Anthony reached the summit of the stairs.

The castellan glared at Murdoch. “My lady Isabella, did this man trouble you?”

Murdoch chuckled and Isabella flushed that he now knew the name she would have kept from him.

“No, Anthony,” Isabella said. “I merely reminded him that it is common courtesy for guests to be announced.”

“And so it is,” Anthony said with all the considerable hauteur he could summon. “I will precede you to my laird and if he wishes to speak with you, he shall.”

“Oh, he will speak with me,” Murdoch said quietly. The threat in his tone caught at Isabella’s ears. “It is not every man who wishes to hear of the grievances made against him, but the Laird of Kinfairlie will hear mine.”

“We shall see,” Anthony huffed and marched onward, beckoning the knight with a terse gesture.

Grievances? Isabella paused on the stairs to the hall and glanced back, only to find the knight’s gaze locked upon her. What complaint could Murdoch have of Alexander? Her brother was well known for the fairness of his courts and the justice of his administration. She had assumed Elizabeth was correct, but now she wondered at Murdoch’s intent.

Anthony climbed the stairs to the third floor and this time, Murdoch waited behind.

Because he was watching Isabella.

Almost as if he dared her to continue their conversation.

Isabella glanced down the stairs, noted the devilry in his gaze, then accepted his dare. She took a step back toward him, mindful of Anthony’s proximity. “What complaint could you have against my brother?” she whispered. “He is honest and just...”

“Then perhaps my brother is in error,” Murdoch said, his tone revealing that he believed otherwise. “Doubtless your brother will tell me the truth.” He said this last as if he did not believe it.

It was his confidence in Alexander’s poor character that nettled her, for it was unfair.

Even though she did not know what had fed his conclusions.

“Of course, he will,” Isabella said, keeping her voice low. “My brother is true...”

“Sir!” Anthony shouted from the third floor.

Murdoch bowed before Isabella. “To my regret, duty calls, my lady Isabella.”

Isabella opened her mouth to tell this man what to do with his presumption, then she saw the wicked twinkle in his eyes. His fingertip brushed the tip of her nose playfully, his gaze dropping to her lips. Isabella stepped backward in outrage at his boldness, but before she could think of what to say, he leapt up the stairs to the third floor.

He spun on the stairs, just before disappearing from view, and blew her a cocky kiss.

The man had no lack of confidence in his charm, that much was certain. Or in any maiden’s fascination with him!

Isabella pivoted, her annoyance simmering, and took two steps toward the kitchens where she would gather ingredients for Eleanor’s posset.

Then she halted. If she went to the kitchens, she would never know what accusation the knight would make against Alexander. Her brother shared no confidences now that he was laird.

And Isabella wanted to know this knight’s complaint.

Isabella hurried back into the chamber shared by the sisters, closed the door and waited until Anthony limped back down to the hall. Then she raced to the third floor on silent feet, flattened herself against the wall beside the door to Alexander’s chamber, and listened.

* * * * * *

The Renegade’s Heart

the first book in Claire Delacroix’s

new True Love Brides series

is now available in both print and digital formats.

* * *

Win A Book!

You could win a book from Deborah or Claire by entering the monthly contest on her blog. There are two contests—and two prizes—each month.

For the Reviewer Contest, you need to post a review of one of her books somewhere online—Goodreads, Amazon, B&N, you name it. It just has to appear on a public site.

For the Reader Contest, all you have to do is enter for a chance to win.

To learn more—and enter!—use the links above to see this month’s contest posts. You can also visit the Alive & Knitting blog, then choose either Reviewer Contest or Reader Contest from the category sidebar.

Good luck!

About the Author

Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval romance that was published in 1993 under her pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published more than fifty romance novels and numerous short stories. As Claire Delacroix, she has written historical romance, romance with fantasy elements, fantasy with romantic elements and future-set urban fantasy romance. As Deborah Cooke, she has written paranormal romance and paranormal young adult fiction. She also wrote briefly as Claire Cross—the time travel and paranormal romances originally published under that name have been re-released as Claire Delacroix books, while the contemporary romances have been re-published as Deborah Cooke books. She tends to include fantasy and paranormal elements in her stories and likes to write linked series of books. Her stories include a blend of action, adventure, romance, humor and deep emotion.

The Beauty by Claire Delacroix, part of her successful Bride Quest series, was her first book to land on the New York Times List of Bestselling Books. She has been nominated for numerous awards (as Claire and as Deborah), including Publisher’s Weekly’s Quill Award, and has won some, including the Booksellers’ Best Award. In 2009, she was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, the first time the library has hosted a residency focused on the romance genre. In 2012, she won the RWA PRO Mentor of the Year Award for her support of aspiring and new writers. Her blog, Alive & Knitting, includes her weekly column on the changing landscape of publishing called Wild West Thursdays and a post each Friday about her knitting.

She makes her home in Canada with her family, too many books and too much yarn.

Connect Online!

Deborah Cooke’s website

Claire Delacroix’s website

Deborah’s blog Alive & Knitting

Deborah’s Facebook Page

Claire’s Facebook Page

Deborah’s Monthly Newsletter

* * *

Book List

Links will take you to the author’s website

for excerpts, copy and buy links.

Claire Delacroix titles:

Historical Romances

The Rose Series:

THE ROMANCE OF THE ROSE

THE SORCERESS

ROARKE’S FOLLY

The Moorish Series:

HONEYED LIES

THE MAGICIAN’S QUEST

The Unicorn Series:

UNICORN BRIDE

PEARL BEYOND PRICE

UNICORN VENGEANCE

The Sayerne Series:

MY LADY’S CHAMPION

ENCHANTED

MY LADY’S DESIRE

The Bride Quest:

THE PRINCESS

THE DAMSEL

THE HEIRESS

The Bride Quest II

(also called The Scottish Bride Quest):

THE COUNTESS

THE BEAUTY

THE TEMPTRESS

The Rogues of Ravensmuir:

THE ROGUE

THE SCOUNDREL

THE WARRIOR

The Jewels of Kinfairlie:

THE BEAUTY BRIDE

THE ROSE RED BRIDE

THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE

“The Ballad of Rosamunde”– a short story

The True Love Brides:

THE RENEGADE’S HEART

THE HIGHLANDER’S CURSE (upcoming)

Time Travel Romances

(Originally published under the name Claire Cross):

ONCE UPON A KISS

THE LAST HIGHLANDER

LOVE POTION #9

THE MOONSTONE

Short Stories and Novellas:

Amor Vincit Omnia

(digital only)

An Elegy for Melusine

(in TO WEAVE A WEB OF MAGIC)

The Kiss of the Snow Queen

(in THE QUEEN IN WINTER)

The Ballad of Rosamunde

Urban Fantasy Romances:

The Prometheus Project:

FALLEN

GUARDIAN

REBEL

Deborah Cooke Titles

Paranormal Romances:

Dragonfire

KISS OF FIRE

KISS OF FURY

KISS OF FATE

WINTER KISS

Harmonia’s Kiss

WHISPER KISS

DARKFIRE KISS

FLASHFIRE

EMBER’S KISS

The Dragon Legion Novellas (upcoming)

Paranormal Young Adult:

The Dragon Diaries:

FLYING BLIND

WINGING IT

BLAZING THE TRAIL

Short Stories:

The Leaves

(digital only)

Coven of Mercy

Contemporary Romances

The Coxwell Series:

THIRD TIME LUCKY

DOUBLE TROUBLE

ONE MORE TIME

ALL OR NOTHING

Table of Contents

Dear Readers

Books in the Trilogy

The Beauty Bride

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

The Rose Red Bride

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

The Snow White Bride

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

The Ballad of Rosamunde

Excerpt: The Renegade's Heart

About the Author

Book List